Captain Trimblett, who had risen, stood waiting impatiently until the other had finished, and then, forgetting all about the errand that had brought him there, departed in haste. Mr. Vyner went to the window, and a broad smile lit up his face as he watched the captain hurrying across the bridge. With a blessing on the head of the most notorious old gossip in Salthaven, he returned to his work.
Possessed by a single idea, Captain Trimblett sped on his way at a pace against which both his age and his figure protested in vain. By the time he reached Tranquil Vale he was breathless, and hardly able to gasp his inquiry for Captain Sellers to the old housekeeper who attended the door.
“He’s a-sitting in the garden looking at his flowers,” she replied. “Will you go through?”
Captain Trimblett went through. His head was erect and his face and eyes blazing. A little old gentleman, endowed with the far sight peculiar to men who have followed the sea, who was sitting in a deck-chair at the bottom of the garden, glimpsed him and at once collapsed. By the time the captain reached the chair he discovered a weasel-faced, shrunken old figure in a snuff-coloured suit of clothes sunk in a profound slumber. He took him by the arms and shook him roughly.
“Yes? Halloa! What’s matter?” inquired Captain Sellers, half waking.
Captain Trimblett arched his hand over his mouth and bent to an ear apparently made of yellow parchment.
“Cap’n Sellers,” he said, in a stern, thrilling voice, “I’ve got a bone to pick with you.”
The old man opened his eyes wide and sat blinking at him. “I’ve been asleep,” he said, with a senile chuckle. “How do, Cap’n Trimblett?”
“I’ve got a bone to pick with you,” repeated the other.
“Eh?” said Captain Sellers, putting his hand to his ear.
“A — bone — to — pick — with — you,” said the incensed Trimblett, raising his voice. “What do you mean by it?”
“Eh?” said Captain Sellers, freshly.
“What do you mean by saying things about me?” bawled Trimblett. “How dare you go spreading false reports about me? I’ll have the law of you.”
Captain Sellers smiled vaguely and shook his head.
“I’ll prosecute you,” bellowed Captain Trimblett. “You’re shamming, you old fox. You can hear what I say plain enough. You’ve been spreading reports that I’m going to—”
He stopped and looked round just in time. Attracted by the volume of his voice, the housekeeper had come to the back door, two faces appeared at the next-door windows, and the back of Mr. Peter Truefitt was just disappearing inside his summer-house.
“I know you are talking,” said Captain Sellers, plaintively, “because I can see your lips moving. It’s a great affliction — deafness.”
He fell back in his chair again, and, with a crafty old eye cocked on the windows next door, fingered a scanty tuft of white hair on his chin and smiled weakly. Captain Trimblett controlled himself by an effort, and, selecting a piece of paper from a bundle of letters in his pocket, made signs for a pencil. Captain Sellers shook his head; then he glanced round uneasily as Trimblett, with an exclamation of satisfaction, found an inch in his waistcoat-pocket and began to write. He nodded sternly at the paper when he had finished, and handed it to Captain Sellers.
The old gentleman received it with a pleasant smile, and, extricating himself from his chair in a remarkable fashion considering his age, began to fumble in his pockets. He went through them twice, and his countenance, now lighted by hope and now darkened by despair, conveyed to Captain Trimblett as accurately as speech could have done the feelings of a man to whom all reading matter, without his spectacles, is mere dross.
“I can’t find my glasses,” said Captain Sellers, at last, lowering himself into the chair. Then he put his hand to his ear and turned toward his visitor. “Try again,” he said, encouragingly.
Captain Trimblett eyed him for a moment in helpless wrath, and then, turning on his heel, marched back through the house, and after standing irresolute for a second or two entered his own. The front room was empty, and from the silence he gathered that Mrs. Chinnery was out. He filled his pipe, and throwing himself into an easy-chair sought to calm his nerves with tobacco, while he tried to think out his position. His meditations were interrupted by the entrance of Mr. Truefitt, and something in the furtive way that gentleman eyed him as he came into the room only served to increase his uneasiness.
“Very warm,” said Truefitt.
The captain assented, and with his eyes fixed on the mantelpiece smoked in silence.
“I saw you... talking... to Captain Sellers just now,” said Mr. Truefitt, after a long pause.
“Aye,” said the captain. “You did.”
His eyes came from the mantelpiece and fixed themselves on those of his friend. Mr. Truefitt in a flurried fashion struck a match and applied it to his empty pipe.
“I’ll have the law of him,” said the captain, fiercely; “he has been spreading false reports about me.”
“Reports?” repeated Mr. Truefitt, in a husky voice.
“He has been telling everybody that I am about to be married,” thundered the captain.
Mr. Truefitt scratched the little bit of gray whisker that grew by his ear.
“I told him,” he said at last.
“You?” exclaimed the amazed captain. “But it isn’t true.”
Mr. Truefitt turned to him with a smile intended to be arch and reassuring. The result, owing to his nervousness, was so hideous that the captain drew back in dismay.
“It’s — it’s all right,” said Mr. Truefitt at last. “Ah! If it hadn’t been for me you might have gone on hoping for years and years, without knowing the true state of her feelings toward you.”
“What do you mean?” demanded the captain, gripping the arms of his chair.
“Sellers is a little bit premature,” said Mr. Truefitt, coughing. “There is nothing settled yet, of course. I told him so. Perhaps I oughtn’t to have mentioned it at all just yet, but I was so pleased to find that it was all right I had to tell somebody.”
“What are you — talking about?” gasped the captain.
Mr. Truefitt looked up, and by a strong effort managed to meet the burning gaze before him.
“I told Susanna,” he said, with a gulp.
“Told her? Told her what?” roared the captain.
“Told her that you said you were not worthy of her,” replied Mr. Truefitt, very slowly and distinctly.
The captain took his pipe out of his mouth, and laying it on the table with extreme care listened mechanically while the clock struck five.
“What did she say?” he inquired, hoarsely, after the clock had finished.
Mr. Truefitt leaned over, and with a trembling hand patted him on the shoulder.
“She said, ‘Nonsense’” he replied, softly.
The captain rose and, putting on his cap — mostly over one eye — put out his hands like a blind man for the door, and blundered out into the street.
CHAPTER XIII
MR. VYNER wants to see you, sir,” said Bassett, as Hartley, coming in from a visit to the harbour, hung his hat on a peg and began to change into the old coat he wore in the office. “Mr. John; he has rung three times.”
The chief clerk changed his coat again, and after adjusting his hair in the little piece of unframed glass which he had bought in the street for a penny thirty years before, hastened to the senior partner’s room.
Mr. Vyner, who was rinsing his hands in a little office washstand that stood in the corner, looked round at his entrance and, after carefully drying his hands on a soft towel, seated himself at his big writing table, and, leaning back, sat thoughtfully regarding his finger-nails. His large, white, freckled hands were redolent of scented soap, and, together with his too regular teeth, his bald head, and white side-whiskers, gave him an appearance of almost aggressive cleanliness.
“I rang for you several times,” he said, looking up with a frown.
> “I have just come back from Wilson’s,” said Hartley; “you told me to see them to-day.”
Mr. Vyner said “Yes,” and, caressing his shaven chin in his hand, appeared to forget the other’s existence.
“How long have you been with us?” he inquired at last.
“Thirty-five years, sir,” said Hartley, studying his face with sudden anxiety.
“A long time,” said the senior partner, dryly. “A long time.”
“A pleasant time, sir,” ventured the other, in a low voice.
Mr. Vyner’s features relaxed, and took on — after some trouble — an appearance of benevolence.
“I hope so,” he said, in patronizing tones. “I hope so. Vyner and Son have the name for being good masters. I have never heard any complaints.”
He pushed his chair back and, throwing one leg over the other, looked down at his patent-leather boots. The benevolent expression had disappeared.
“Thirty-five years,” he said, slowly. “H’m! I had no idea it was so long. You have — ha — no family, worth mentioning?”
“One daughter,” said Hartley, his lips going suddenly dry.
“Just so. Just so,” said the senior partner. He looked at his boots again. “And she is old enough to earn her own living. Or she might marry. You are in a fortunate position.”
Hartley, still watching him anxiously, bowed.
“In the event, for instance,” continued Mr. Vyner, in careless tones— “in the event of your retiring from the service of Vyner and Son, there is nobody that would suffer much. That is a great consideration — a very great consideration.”
Hartley, unable to speak, bowed again.
“Change,” continued Mr. Vyner, with the air of one uttering a new but indisputable fact— “change is good for us all. So long as you retain your present position there is, of course, a little stagnation in the office; the juniors see their way barred.”
He took up a paper-knife and, balancing it between his fingers, tapped lightly with it on the table.
“Is your daughter likely to be married soon?” he inquired, looking up suddenly.
Hartley shook his head. “N-no; I don’t think so,” he said, thickly.
The senior partner resumed his tapping.
“That is a pity,” he said at last, with a frown. “Of course, you understand that Vyner and Son are not anxious to dispense with your services — not at all. In certain circumstances you might remain with us another ten or fifteen years, and then go with a good retiring allowance. At your present age there would be no allowance. Do you understand me?”
The chief clerk tried to summon a little courage, little dignity.
“I am afraid I don’t,” he said, in a low voice. “It is all so sudden. I — I am rather bewildered.” Mr. Vyner looked at him impatiently.
He leaned back in his chair, and watched his chief clerk closely
“I said just now,” he continued, in a hard voice, “that Vyner and Son are not anxious to dispense with your services. That is, in a way, a figure of speech. Mr. Robert knows nothing of this, and I may tell you — as an old and trusted servant of the firm — that his share as a partner is at present but nominal, and were he to do anything seriously opposed to my wishes, such as, for instance — such as a — ha — matrimonial alliance of which I could not approve, the results for him would be disastrous. Do you understand?”
In a slow, troubled fashion Hartley intimated that he did. He began to enter into explanations, and was stopped by the senior partner’s uplifted hand.
“That will do,” said the latter, stiffly. “I have no doubt I know all that you could tell me. It is — ha — only out of consideration for your long and faithful service that I have — ha — permitted you a glimpse into my affairs — our affairs. I hope, now, that I have made myself quite clear.”
He leaned back in his chair and, twisting the paper-knife idly between his fingers, watched his chief clerk closely.
“Wouldn’t it be advisable—” began Hartley, and stopped abruptly at the expression on the other’s face. “I was thinking that if you mentioned this to Mr. Robert—”
“Certainly not!” said Mr. Vyner, with great sharpness. “Certainly not!”
Anger at having to explain affairs to his clerk, and the task of selecting words which should cause the least loss of dignity, almost deprived him of utterance.
“This is a private matter,” he said at last, “strictly between ourselves. I am master here, and any alteration in the staff is a matter for myself alone. I do not wish — in fact, I forbid you to mention the matter to him. Unfortunately, we do not always see eye to eye. He is young, and perhaps hardly as worldly wise as I could wish.”
He leaned forward to replace the paper-knife on the table, and, after blowing his nose with some emphasis, put the handkerchief back in his pocket and sat listening with a judicial air for anything that his chief clerk might wish to put before him.
“It would be a great blow to me to leave the firm,” said Hartley, after two ineffectual attempts to speak. “I have been in it all my life — all my life. At my age I could scarcely hope to get any other employment worth having. I have always tried to do my best. I have never—”
“Yes, yes,” said the other, interrupting with a wave of his hand; “that has been recognized. Your remuneration has, I believe, been in accordance with your — ha — services. And I suppose you have made some provision?”
Hartley shook his head. “Very little,” he said, slowly. “My wife was ill for years before she died, and I have had other expenses. My life is insured, so that in case of anything happening to me there would be something for my daughter, but that is about all.”
“And in case of dismissal,” said the senior partner, with some cheerfulness, “the insurance premium would, of course, only be an extra responsibility. It is your business, of course; but if I were — ha — in your place I should — ha — marry my daughter off as soon as possible. If you could come to me in three months and tell me—”
He broke off abruptly and, sitting upright, eyed his clerk steadily.
“That is all, I think,” he said at last. “Oh, no mention of this, of course, in the office — I have no desire to raise hopes of promotion in the staff that may not be justified; I may say that I hope will not be justified.”
He drew his chair to the table, and with a nod of dismissal took up his pen. Hartley went back to his work with his head in a whirl, and for the first time in twenty years cast a column of figures incorrectly, thereby putting a great strain on the diplomacy of the junior who made the discovery.
He left at his usual hour, and, free from the bustle of the office, tried to realize the full meaning of his interview with Mr. Vyner. He thought of his pleasant house and garden, and the absence of demand in Salthaven for dismissed clerks of over fifty. His thoughts turned to London, but he had grown up with Vyner and Son and had but little to sell in the open market. Walking with bent head he cannoned against a passer-by, and, looking up to apologize, caught sight of Captain Trimblett across the way, standing in front of a jeweller’s window.
A tall, sinewy man in a serge suit, whom Hartley recognized as Captain Walsh, was standing by him. His attitude was that of an indulgent policeman with a refractory prisoner, and twice Hartley saw him lay hold of the captain by the coat-sleeve, and call his attention to something in the window. Anxious to discuss his affairs with Trimblett, Hartley crossed the road.
“Ah! here’s Hartley,” said the tall captain, with an air of relief, as Captain Trimblett turned and revealed a hot face mottled and streaked with red. “Make him listen to reason. He won’t do it for me.
“What’s the matter?” inquired Hartley, listlessly.
“A friend o’ mine,” said Captain Walsh, favouring him with a hideous wink, “a great friend o’ mine, is going to be married, and I want to give him a wedding present before I go. I sail to-morrow.”
“Well, ask him what he’d like,” said Trimblett, making
another ineffectual attempt to escape. “Don’t bother me.”
“I can’t do that,” said Walsh, with another wink; “it’s awkward; besides which, his modesty, would probably make him swear that he wasn’t going to be married at all. In fact, he has told me that already. I want you to choose for him. Tell me what you’d like, and no doubt it’ll please him. What do you say to that cruet-stand?”
“D —— — m the cruet-stand!” said Trimblett, wiping his hot face.
“All right,” said the unmoved Walsh, with his arm firmly linked in that of his friend. “What about a toast-rack? That one!”
“I don’t believe in wedding-presents,” said Trimblett, thickly. “Never did. I think it’s an absurd custom. And if your friend says he isn’t going to be married, surely he ought to know.”
“Shyness,” rejoined Captain Walsh— “pure shyness. He’s one of the best. I know his idea. His idea is to be married on the quiet and without any fuss. But it isn’t coming off. No, sir. Now, suppose it was you — don’t be violent; I only said suppose — how would that pickle-jar strike you?”
“I know nothing about it,” said Captain Trimblett, raising his voice. “Besides, I can’t take the responsibility of choosing for another man. I told you so before.”
Captain Walsh paid no heed. His glance roved over the contents of the window.
“Trimblett’s a terror,” he said in a serene voice, turning to Hartley. “I don’t know what it’s like walking down the High Street looking into shop-windows with a fretful porcupine; but I can make a pretty good guess.”
“You should leave me alone, then,” said Trimblett, wrenching his arm free. “Wedding-presents have no interest for me.”
“That’s what he keeps saying,” said Walsh, turning to Hartley again; “and when I referred just now — in the most delicate manner — to love’s young dream, I thought he’d ha’ bust his boilers.”
Works of W. W. Jacobs Page 69
