June the twenty-first. The day of the sale. Midsummer day. Nutley’s day.
He arrived early at the house, and met at the door Colonel Stanforth,
who had walked across the park, and who considered the solicitor’s
umbrella with amusement. “Afraid it will rain, Nutley? Look at that blue
sky, not a cloud, not even a white one.” They entered the house
together, Stanforth rubicund and large, Nutley noticeably spare in the
black coat that enveloped him like a sheath. “Might be an undertaker’s
mute,” Stanforth commented inwardly. “Isn’t Farebrother coming up
to-day?” he asked aloud. “Oh, yes, I daresay he’ll look in later,”
Nutley answered, implying as clearly as possible by his tone that it was
not of the slightest importance whether his partner looked in or not.
“Well, there aren’t many people about yet,” said Stanforth, rubbing his
hands vigorously together. “What about your Brazilians, eh? Are they
going to put in an appearance? Chase, I hear, is still in
Wolverhampton.”
“Yes,” answered Nutley, “we shan’t see much of _him_.”
“Of course, there was no necessity for him to come, but it’s odd of him
to take so little interest, don’t you think? Odd, I mean, as he seemed
to like staying in the place, and to have got on so remarkably well with
all the people around. Not that I saw anything of him when he was here.
An unneighbourly sort of fellow, I should think. But to hear some of the
people talk about him, by Gad, I was quite sorry he couldn’t settle down
here as squire.”
“As you say, there was no necessity for him to come to the sale,” said
Nutley, frigidly ignoring the remainder of Stanforth’s remarks.
“No, but if I’d been he, I don’t think I could have kept away, all the
same.”
Nutley went off, saying he had things to see to. On the landing he met
the butler with Thane slouching disconsolately after him.
“You’ll see that that dog’s shut up, Fortune,” he snapped at him.
An air of suspense hung over everything. The sale was announced to begin
at midday, because the London train arrived shortly after eleven, but
before then the local attendance poured in, and many people drove up who
had not previously been seen at the house, their business being with the
lands or the farms: farmers in their gigs, tip-toeing awkwardly and
apologetically on the polished boards of the hall while their horses
were led away into the stable-yard, and there were many of the gentry
too, who came in waggonettes or pony-traps. Nutley, watching and prying
everywhere, observed the arrival of the latter with mixed feelings. On
the one hand their presence increased the crush, but on the other hand
he did not for a moment suppose they had come to buy. They came in
families, shy and inclined to giggle and to herd together, squire and
lady dressed almost similarly in tweed, and not differing much as to
figure either, the sons very tall and slim, and slightly ashamed, the
daughters rather taller and slimmer, in light muslins and large hats,
all whispering together, half propitiatory, half on the defensive, and
casting suspicious glances at everyone else. Amongst these groups Nutley
discerned the young Brazilian, graceful as an antelope amongst cattle,
and, going to the window, he saw the white Rolls-Royce silently
manœuvring amongst the gigs and the waggonettes.
“Regular bean-feast, ain’t it?” said Stanforth’s voice behind him. “You
ought to have had a merry-go-round and a gipsy booth, Nutley.”
Nutley uncovered his teeth in a nervously polite smile. He looked at his
watch, and decided that it was time the London motors began to arrive.
Also the train was due. Most of those who came by train would have to
walk from the station; it wasn’t far across the village and down the
avenue to the house. He could see the advance guard already, walking in
batches of two and three. And there was Farebrother; silly old
Farebrother, with his rosy face, and his big spectacles, and his woolly
white curls under the broad hat. Not long to wait now. The auctioneer’s
men were at their posts; most of the chairs in the gallery were
occupied, only the front rows being left empty owing to diffidence; the
auctioneer himself, Mr. Webb, had arrived and stood talking to Colonel
Stanforth, with an air of unconcern, on any topic other than the sale.
The farms and outlying portions were to be dealt with first, then the
house and the contents of the house, then the park, and the building
lots that had been carved out of the park and that were especially dear
to Nutley. It would be a long sale, and probably an exciting one. He
hoped there would be competition over the house. He knew that several
agencies were after it, but thought that he would place his money on the
Brazilian.
A continuous stir of movement and conversation filled the gallery.
People came up to Nutley and asked him questions in whispers, and some
of the big dealers nodded to him. Nearly all the men had their
catalogues and pencils ready; some were reading the booklet. The
Brazilian slipped into a prominent seat, accompanied by his solicitor. A
quarter to twelve. The garden was deserted now, for everyone had crowded
into the house. Five minutes to twelve. Mr. Webb climbed up into his
high chair, adjusted his glasses, and began turning over some papers on
the desk before him.
A message was brought to Nutley: Mr. Webb would be much obliged if he
would remain at hand to answer any point that might be raised. Nutley
was only too glad. He went and leant against the auctioneer’s chair, at
the back, and from there surveyed the whole length of the room. Rows of
expectant people. People leaning against the walls and in the doorways.
The gaitered farmers. The gentry. The dealers. The clerks and small fry.
The men in green baize aprons. Such a crowd as the gallery had never
seen.
“Lot 1, gentlemen....”
The sharp rap of the auctioneer’s little ivory hammer, and the buzz in
the room was stilled; throats were cleared, heads raised.
“Lot 1, gentlemen. Three cottages adjoining the station, with one acre
of ground; coloured green on plan. What bids, gentlemen? Anyone start
the bidding? Five hundred guineas? four hundred? Come, come, gentlemen,
please,” admonishing them, “we have a great deal to get through. I ask
your kind co-operation.”
Knocked down at seven hundred and fifty guineas. Nutley noted the sum in
the margin of his catalogue. Webb was a capital auctioneer: he bustled
folk, he chaffed them, he got them into a good temper, he made them
laugh so that their purses laughed wide in company. He had a jolly round
face, a twinkling eye, and a rose-bud in his buttonhole. Five hundred
and fifty for the next lot, two cottages; so far, so good.
“Now, gentlemen, we come to something a little more interesting: the
farm-house and lands known as Orchards. An excellent house, and a
particularly fine brew of ale kept there, too, as I happen to
know—though that doesn’t go with the house.” (The audience laughed; it
appreciated that kind of pleasantry.) “What offers, gentlemen? Two
hundred acres of fine pasture and arable, ten acres of shaw, twenty
acres of first-class fruit-trees....” “That’s so, sir,” from Chase’s old
apple-dealer friend at the back of the room, and heads were turned
smilingly towards him. “There spoke the best authority in the county,”
cried the auctioneer, catching on to this, “as nice a little property as
you could wish. I’ve a good mind to start the bidding myself. Fifty
guineas—I’ll put up fifty guineas. Who’ll go one better?” The audience
laughed again; Mr. Webb had a great reputation as a wag. Nutley caught
sight of Farebrother’s full-moon face at the back of the room,
perfunctorily smiling.
The tenant began bidding for his own farm; he had been to Nutley to see
whether a mortgage could be arranged, and Nutley knew the extent of his
finances. The voice of the auctioneer followed the bidding monotonously
up, “Two thousand guineas ... two thousand two hundred ... come,
gentlemen, we’re wasting time ... two thousand five hundred....”
Knocked down to the farmer at three thousand five hundred guineas. A
wink passed between Nutley and the purchaser: the place had not sold
very well, but Nutley’s firm would get the commission on the mortgage.
Lot 4. Jakes’ cottage. Nutley remembered that Chase had once commented
on Jakes’ garden, and he remembered also that old Miss Chase used to
favour Jakes and his flowers; he supposed sarcastically that it was
hereditary among the Chases to favour Jakes. That same stab of malice
came back to him, and this time it included Jakes: the man made himself
ridiculous over his garden, carrying (as he boasted) soil and leaf-mould
home for it for miles upon his back; that was all over now, and his
cottage would first be sold as a building site and then pulled down.
He caught sight of Jakes, standing near a window, his every-day corduroy
trousers tied as usual with string round the knees; he looked terribly
embarrassed, and was swallowing hard; the Adam’s apple in his throat
moved visibly above his collar. He stood twisting his cap between his
hands. Nutley derisively watched him, saying to himself that the fellow
might be on the point of making a speech. Surely he wasn’t going to bid!
a working-man on perhaps forty shillings a week! Nutley was taken up and
entertained by this idea, when a stir at the door distracted his
attention; he glanced to see who the late-comer was, and perceived
Chase.