THE CLOSED HOUSE
The break-up of the home at Littlecote Hall was a speedy and complete
affair; Miss Jane Tebbs, being practically on the spot, volunteered
invaluable assistance. Always energetic and anxious to be “up and
doing,” and with a sadly restricted field for her activities, here was
a grand opportunity absolutely within her reach. The second Miss Tebbs
had an immense acquaintance and correspondence, a fairly, good business
head and, to her late enemy Mrs. Shafto, she ultimately proved a
veritable tower of strength. The recent sad catastrophe had melted
Jane’s heart, and she promptly appeared in “Littlecote” drawing-room,
waving a large olive branch—which her former adversary most thankfully
accepted. In such a crisis as the present there was no more helpless,
hopeless creature than Lucilla Shafto—a woman who was always ready to
transfer her burdens to others. Strange to say, she somewhat distrusted
her intimates in Bricklands; it seemed to her that their questions and
sympathy were chiefly founded on vulgar curiosity and greedy
self-interest. “How was she left? What had become of all the money?
What was the boy going to do? Where would she settle? Would she not be
glad to get rid of some of her smart summer clothes, now that she would
be in weeds for at least two years? _What_ about her sables?”
Jane Tebbs was totally different; an honest and single-hearted woman,
she wrote business letters, interviewed the local agent, arranged for
the auction and,—O wonderful and miraculous achievement!—was even
instrumental in getting rid of the lease.
It was not surprising in all these circumstances that Mrs. Shafto
should cling as a limpet to Jane Tebbs, whom she had so often
apostrophised as a “meddling, mischievous, malignant old cat,” but
Lucilla Shafto was suffering from a violent mental shock. The sudden
descent, as it were in one day, from comfortable affluence to a very
narrow income, had temporarily stunned her, and she had a secret
conviction that if she were to leave her affairs in the capable hands
of her nearest neighbour, all would be well. She therefore remained
secluded in her own spacious bedroom, whilst busy Jane undertook her
affairs; helped with the auction list, interviewed the tradespeople,
and, accompanied by the boy, went up to London to confer with Mr.
Shafto’s lawyers.
Douglas was subdued; he seemed a different creature, so silent and
pale, but keenly anxious to put his shoulder to the wheel. He had
withdrawn from Sandhurst and, in conversations with the Tremenheeres,
informed them that his idea of going into the Army was knocked on the
head, and that he now intended to look out for some job in the City.
It must not be supposed that Jane Tebbs, the indefatigable, was the
only neighbour who had come forward with offers of assistance to the
widow; the Tremenheeres, the vicarage, and many other acquaintances had
been sincere in their sympathy and goodwill, but somehow or other Mrs.
Shafto would have none of them! She refused to see the vicar or his
wife, and lay in bed most of the day bewailing her fate, scribbling
answers to letters of condolence, and occasionally dipping into a
novel. “Read she must,” she declared, “as it diverted her mind from the
too dreadful present. A good novel was the best of anodynes.”
The auction at “Littlecote” proved an important local event, and threw
the annual Church bazaar woefully into the shade. It lasted three
summer days and enabled a substantial sum to be placed to the credit of
Edward Shafto’s widow. Unfortunately Edward Shafto’s widow had
considerable private debts and, when these were settled, five hundred
pounds was all that remained for investment.
As is proverbial with respect to auctions, good and even valuable lots
went in some cases for the traditional old song; it is on record that
Mrs. Shafto’s smart victoria was sold to a jobmaster for six pounds,
Mrs. Billing secured a wonderful bargain in the Crown Derby tea
service, and the Sheffield tea urn fell to Miss Tebbs for ten shillings
and sixpence! On the other hand, rubbish was at a premium. The kitchen
utensils were dispersed at an alarmingly high figure, and a Turkey
carpet, aged twenty years, fetched more than its original cost.
The sale was over. Needless to say, it had afforded enormous interest
to the inmates of Highfield Cottage. Miss Jane could almost tell the
price and history of each individual lot.
In a short time the great placards of advertisement were torn off the
gate piers at “Littlecote,” the house was closed, and once more the
blinds were down.