“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, a 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.
“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.”
As far as Hartley could see, Captain Trimblett was again within
measurable distance of such a catastrophe. For a moment he struggled
wildly for speech, and then, coming to the conclusion that nothing he
could say would do him any good, he swung on his heel and walked off.
Hartley, with a nod to Walsh, followed.
“That idiot has been pestering me for the last half-hour,” said Captain
Trimblett, after walking for some distance in wrathful silence. “I
wonder whether it would be brought in murder if I wrung old Sellers’s
neck? I’ve had four people this morning come up and talk to me about
getting married. At least, they started talking.”
“Turn a deaf ear,” said Hartley.
“Deaf ear?” repeated the captain. “I wish I could. The last few days
I’ve been wishing that I hadn’t got ears. It’s all Truefitt’s doing.
He’s hinting now that I’m too bashful to speak up, and that weak-headed
Cecilia Willett believes him. If you could only see her fussing round
and trying to make things easy for me, as she considers, you’d wonder I
don’t go crazy.”
“We’ve all got our troubles,” said Hartley, shaking his head.
The indignant captain turned and regarded him fiercely.
“I am likely to leave Vyner and Son,” said the other, slowly, “after
thirty-five years.”
The wrath died out of the captain’s face, and he regarded his old friend
with looks of affectionate concern. In grim silence he listened to an
account of the interview with Mr. Vyner.
“You know what it all means,” he said, savagely, as Hartley finished.
“I—I think so,” was the reply.
“It means,” said the captain, biting his words—“it means that unless
Joan is married within three months, so as to be out of Robert Vyner’s
way, you will be dismissed the firm. It saves the old man’s pride a bit
putting it that way, and it’s safer, too. And if Robert Vyner marries
her he will have to earn his own living. With luck he might get thirty
shillings a week.”
“I know,” said the other.
“Get her to town as soon as possible,” continued the captain,
impressively. He paused a moment, and added with some feeling, “That’s
what I’m going to do; I spoke to Mr. Vyner about it to-day. We will go
up together, and I’ll look after her.”
“I’ll write to-night,” said Hartley. “Not that it will make any
difference, so far as I can see.”
“It’s a step in the right direction, at any rate,” retorted the captain.
“It keeps her out of young Vyner’s way, and it shows John Vyner that you
are doing your best to meet his views, and it might make him realize
that you have got a little pride, too.”
Partly to cheer Hartley up, and partly to avoid returning to Tranquil
Vale, he spent the evening with him, and, being deterred by the presence
of Miss Hartley from expressing his opinion of John Vyner, indulged
instead in a violent tirade against the tyranny of wealth. Lured on by
the highly interested Joan, he went still further, and in impassioned
words committed himself to the statement that all men were equal, and
should have equal rights, only hesitating when he discovered that she
had been an unwilling listener on an occasion when he had pointed out to
an offending seaman certain blemishes in his family tree. He then
changed the subject to the baneful practice of eavesdropping.
By the time he reached home it was quite late. There was no moon, but
the heavens were bright with stars. He stood outside for a few moments
listening to the sound of voices within, and then, moved perhaps by the
quiet beauty of the night, strolled down to the river and stood watching
the lights of passing craft. Midnight sounded in the distance as he
walked back.
The lamp was still burning, but the room was empty. He closed the door
softly behind him, and stood eying, with some uneasiness, a large and
untidy brown-paper parcel that stood in the centre of the table. From
the crumpled appearance of the paper and the clumsily tied knots it had
the appearance of having been opened and fastened up again by unskilled
hands. The sense of uneasiness deepened as he approached the table and
stood, with his head on one side, looking at it.
He turned at the sound of a light shuffling step in the kitchen. The
door opened gently and the head of Mr. Truefitt was slowly inserted.
Glimpses of a shirt and trousers, and the rumpled condition of the
intruder’s hair, suggested that he had newly risen from bed.
“I heard you come in,” he said, in a stealthy whisper.
“Yes?” said the captain.
“There was no address on it,” said Mr. Truefitt, indicating the parcel
by a nod; “it was left by somebody while we were out, and on opening it
we found it was for you. At least, partly. I thought I ought to tell
you.”
“It don’t matter,” said the captain, with an effort.
Mr. Truefitt nodded again. “I only wanted to explain how it was,” he
said. “Good-night.”
He closed the door behind him, and the captain, after eying the parcel
for some time, drew a clasp-knife from his pocket and with trembling
fingers cut the string and stripped off the paper. The glistening metal
of the largest electro-plated salad-bowl he had ever seen met his
horrified gaze. In a hypnotized fashion he took out the fork and spoon
and balanced them in his fingers. A small card at the bottom of the bowl
caught his eye, and he bent over and read it:—
_“With Hearty Congratulations and Best Wishes to Captain and Mrs.
Trimblett from Captain Michael Walsh.”_
For a long time he stood motionless; then, crumpling the card up and
placing it in his pocket, he took the bowl in his arms and bore it to
his bedroom. Wrapped again in its coverings, it was left to languish on
the top of the cupboard behind a carefully constructed rampart of old
cardboard boxes and worn-out books.