XVI
There was a general stir in the room, of chairs being shifted, and legs uncrossed and recrossed. Mr. Webb gave a little cough, while he laid aside his catalogue in favour of the more elaborate booklet, which he opened on the desk in front of him, flattening down the pages with a precise hand. He drew himself up, took off his glasses, and tapped the booklet with them, surveying his audience. “As you know, ladies and gentlemen—as, in fact, this monograph, which you have all had in your hands, will have told you if you did not know it before—we have in Blackboys one of the most perfect examples of the Elizabethan manor-house in England. I don’t think I need take up your time and my own by enlarging upon that, or by pointing out the historical and artistic value of the property about to be disposed of; I can safely leave the ancient building, and the monograph so ably prepared by my friend Mr. Nutley, to speak for themselves. It only remains for me to beg those intending to bid, to second my efforts in putting the sale through as quickly as possible, for we still have a large portion of the catalogue to deal with, and to bear in mind that a reserve figure of reasonable proportions has been placed upon the manor-house and surrounding grounds.—Lot 16, the manor-house known as Blackboys Priory, the pleasure-grounds of eight acres, and one hundred and twenty-five acres of park land adjoining.”
A short silence succeeded Mr. Webb’s little speech. The Brazilian and his solicitor whispered together. The representatives of the various agencies looked at one another to see who would take the first step. Finally a voice said, “Eight thousand guineas.”
“Come, come,” smiled Mr. Webb.
“Nine thousand,” said another voice.
“I told you, gentlemen, that a reasonable reserve had been placed upon this lot,” said the auctioneer in a tone of restrained impatience, “and you must all of you be sufficiently acquainted with the standard of sale-room prices to know that nine thousand guineas comes nowhere near a reasonable figure for a property such as the one we have now under consideration.”
Thus rebuked, the man who had first spoken said, “All right—twelve thousand.”
“And five hundred,” said the second man.
“Sticky, sticky,” murmured Nutley, shaking his head.
Still neither the Brazilian nor his solicitor made any sign. The agents were evidently unwilling to show their hands; then a little man began to bid on behalf of an American standing at his elbow: “Thirteen thousand guineas.”
This stirred the agents, and between them all the bidding crackled up to eighteen thousand. Mr. Webb, judging that the American was probably good for twenty or twenty-five, and wishing to entice the Brazilian into competition, said in the same resigned tone, “I am unwilling to withdraw this lot, but I am afraid we cannot afford to waste time in this fashion.”
“Make it twenty, sir,” called out the American, “and let’s get a move on.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Mr. Webb, in the midst of a laugh. “I am bid twenty thousand guineas for Lot 16, twenty thousand guineas are bid ... and five hundred on my right ... twenty-one thousand on my left ... thank you again, sir: twenty-two thousand guineas. Twenty-two thousand guineas. Surely no one wishes to see this lot withdrawn? Twenty-two thousand guineas. And five hundred. And two hundred and fifty more. Twenty-two thousand seven hundred and fifty guineas....”
“Twenty-three thousand,” said the solicitor who had come with the Brazilian.
People craned forward now to see and to hear. The Brazilian had been generally pointed out as the most likely buyer, and until he or his man took up the bidding it could be disregarded as preliminary. The small fry of the agents served to run it up into workable figures, after which it would certainly pass beyond them. The duel, it was guessed, would lie between the American and the Brazilian.
“Twenty-four thousand,” called out one of the agents in a sort of dying flourish.
“And five hundred,” said another, not to be outdone.
“Twenty-five thousand,” said the Brazilian’s solicitor.
“Twenty-five thousand guineas are bid,” said the auctioneer. “Twenty-five thousand guineas. I am authorised by Mr. Nutley, the solicitor acting for this estate, to tell you ...” he glanced down at Nutley, who nodded, “... to tell you that this sum had already been offered, and refused, at the estate office. If, therefore, no gentleman is willing to pass beyond twenty-five thousand guineas, I shall be compelled ... and five hundred, thank you, sir. Twenty-five thousand five hundred guineas.”
Most people present supposed that this sum came very near to being adequate, and a murmur to this effect passed up and down the room. People looked at Chase, who was as white as death and sat with his eye fixed upon the floor. The American, good-humouredly enough, was trying to take the measure of the unruffled young man; judging from the slight shrug he gave, he did not think he stood much chance, but nevertheless he called, “Keep the ball rolling. Two hundred and fifty more.”
The room began to take sides, most preferring the straight forward vulgarity of the jolly American to the outlandishness of the young man, which baffled and put them ill at their ease. (Nutley found time to think that the youth of the neighbourhood would need some time before it recovered from the influence of that young man, even if he were to pass away with the day.) Those who had the habit of sale-rooms thought Chase lucky in having two men, both keen, against one another to run up a high price. They bent forward with their elbows on their knees and their chins in their hands, to listen.
“And two hundred and fifty more,” capped the solicitor.
“Twenty-six thousand guineas are bid,” said Mr. Webb, who by now was leaning well over his desk and whose glances kept travelling sharply between the rivals. He was sure that the Brazilian intended, if necessary, to go to thirty thousand.
“Twenty-seven,” said the American, recklessly.
“Twenty-eight,” said the solicitor after a word with his employer.
The American shook his head; he was very jovial and friendly, and bore no malice. He laughed, but he shook his head.
“If that is your last word, gentlemen, I regret to say that the lot must be withdrawn, as the reserve has not been reached,” said Mr. Webb. “I am sure that Mr. Nutley will pardon me the slight irregularity in giving you this information, under the exceptional circumstances....” Nutley assented; he greatly enjoyed being referred to, especially now in Chase’s presence.... “I only do so in order to give you the chance of continuing should you wish....”
“All right, anything to make a running,” said the American, who was certainly the favourite of the excited and eager audience; “two hundred and fifty better than the last bid.”
The auctioneer caught the Brazilian’s nod.
“I am bid twenty-eight thousand five hundred guineas ... twenty-nine thousand,” he added, as the American nodded to him.
“Thirty,” said the Brazilian quietly.
He had not spoken before, and every gaze was turned upon him as, perfectly cool, he stood leaning against the wall in the bay of a window. He was undisturbed, from the sleekness of his head down to his immaculate shoes. He had all the assurance of one who is certain of having spoken the last word.
“I’m out of this,” said the American.
“Thirty thousand guineas are bid,” said the auctioneer; “for Lot 16 thirty thousand guineas. Thirty Thousand Guineas,” he enunciated; “going, for the sum of thirty thousand guineas, going, going,...”
Chase tottered to his feet.
“Thirty-one thousand,” he cried in a strangled voice, “thirty-one thousand!”