Читать книгу The rainproof invention: or, Some tangled threads - Emily Poynton Weaver - Страница 4

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THE NORBURY MILLS.

It was a dull day; not stormy, nor windy, nor particularly foggy for Wharton, but dull—depressingly dull. Business was dull too. Not a customer had been in to vary the tedious monotony of the morning, and there was almost nothing to be done; consequently, the clerks were dull too. It was provoking to sit for hours over work that they suspected had been given to them mainly to fill up the time. It really was not fair, so they worked with a sense of injury upon them that deepened the despondency proper to the weather into something little short of despair. Was there ever so long a morning?

“Another hour yet!” groaned Bob Littleton with a lugubrious glance at the clock. “I can’t see the use of all this, Mr. Milwood.”

Mr. Milwood made no answer. Perhaps he did not hear, or perhaps he did not see the use of it either. Immediately afterwards he was called away to Mr. Norbury’s private room, and Bob rose from his seat and went to refresh himself by a rather lengthened examination of the dingy street pavement and the smoke-begrimed walls opposite. He soon decided that the prospect outside was even duller than that within, and was returning to his seat disconsolate, when he stopped and exclaimed in a surprisingly cheerful tone, “Why, I do believe that there is somebody coming in!”

The other clerks perceptibly brightened, straightened themselves up, and began to work more energetically, while Bob advanced towards the little railing near the door, that defended the sacred precincts of the office from intrusion. The stranger was a young man, tall and slightly built, with fair hair, rather sharply cut features, and keen blue-gray eyes that it was difficult to believe were shortsighted, in spite of the glasses with which their owner thought it necessary to supplement their powers of vision. There was a certain briskness about the bearing of the newcomer that took Bob’s fancy at once. A more complete contrast could hardly be imagined than he presented to the jaded toilers at the desks. When he spoke it was in a quiet, decided tone that suited the satirical, “wide-awake” expression of his face. He had come, he said, to inquire about a position that he understood was vacant.

“Mr. Norbury is engaged at present,” said Bob, “but if you can wait a few minutes, come in. If you can’t, perhaps you would like to leave a message, and I will let you know what he says.”

“Thank you. I’ll wait. I’m in no hurry. Much obliged to you all the same.”

“I can’t understand what Mr. Norbury wants with another fellow,” said Bob. “We have had nothing to do all morning, and another of us would only make it worse.”

“I heard that Mr. Norbury has a very large business.”

“It’s pretty fair, thanks to the patent.”

“What patent?” asked the other, now comfortably established on one of the high office stools, with his back against the desk.

“Don’t you know? Why, the Norbury patent rainproof cloth, to be sure! The best material for cloaks and traveling garments ever invented,—cool, light, durable, and odorless,—made in all shades and several qualities; warranted to stand dust, sun, mud, snow, and rain; wears for years”—

“Shut up, Littleton!” growled one of the others. “You’re worse than old Norbury’s most flaming advertisement.”

“Well, anyway,” ran on Bob, “the patent has made his fortune. He was as poor as Job before he found it out. They do say he’s working at another, something that’ll beat the old one all to nothing; and sure enough, he spends hours in an old den he has upstairs, locked up with a lot of powders and bottles, and I don’t know what, but he’s precious close about it. I doubt if even Miss Norbury knows what he’s at; and of course it will be hers some day—mill and patent and business and all.”

“Miss Norbury will never trouble her head about it!” exclaimed Charley Milwood (the youngest clerk in the office) with an indescribable air of condescension. “Ladies can’t be expected to understand business.”

“My dear boy, there are ladies and ladies,” replied Bob. “Some of them know a great deal more about business than you ever will, if you live to be a hundred. I dare venture to say that Miss Norbury”—

“I wish, Littleton, that you would be quiet and permit us to do our work, even if you do not intend to do any more,” interrupted a young man who had not before spoken; but his tones of displeasure had no effect upon Bob.

“I’m sure, Warrington, that there can be no harm in saying that Miss Norbury is quite capable of understanding whatever her father might choose to tell her, but you are always so desperately touchy about her. Would you believe it,” he added, turning to the newcomer again, “Warrington thinks that no one but himself has a right to mention her? I admire her as much as any one, and I can’t help speaking of her.”

“You talk too much of everything,” retorted Warrington, without looking up from his work.

Bob was not much abashed by this comprehensive rebuke, but rattled on to the stranger,—who, by the way, had given his name as Mark Stanton,—“Every one who comes into this office always falls in love with Miss Norbury. It’s the proper thing to do. From Warrington down to little Charley there, we all adore Miss Norbury!”

Stanton glanced quickly from one to the other. Sharp as he was, he could make nothing of Bob’s face; the innocent gravity with which he made this extraordinary statement was sublime, but Warrington, in spite of his efforts to look unconscious, blushed angrily, and “little Charley’s” dignity became amazing to see! It was a capital, half-unconscious, but most absurd imitation of Ralph’s manner when he was offended.

Charley Milwood had a warm admiration for the handsome cashier, and it was the height of his ambition to become like him. Unfortunately, he was doomed to be disappointed, for nature had made the two on totally different plans. Charley was rather a good-looking little fellow, but was very small and slight, and though he had not yet given up all hope of growing, was likely to be small and slight to the end. Ralph Warrington was a remarkably fine-looking man, broad-shouldered, tall, and straight. His figure was perhaps a little too stiff and unbending, but it was splendidly proportioned. His clear-cut features of almost classic beauty, blue eyes, and a carefully trimmed beard of a rather reddish hue, complete the picture. He was several years older than Bob, and, holding a responsible position in the office, felt perfectly justified in keeping his juniors as much at a distance as possible. Besides,—Ralph never spoke of this, but perhaps, for that reason, thought of it the more,—he was descended from a once noble family, which had lost both title and estates in the disastrous “forty-five.” His father and his grandfather before him had received none of the family honors and advantages except the traditions of past glories. Their very name was changed. Time had been when a Sir Ralph de Warrington had led his gallant followers to victory on the field of Creçy; when the Baron de Warrington had kissed the fair hand of luckless Lady Jane, dying for her sake on the scaffold; and when another de Warrington, granted an earldom at the Restoration, had kept his oaths of fealty through good report and ill, and had so tutored his son in loyalty to the Stuarts that he had thrown away his all for their worthless sakes. It was many years since the aristocratic “de” had been dropped from their name by some representative of the family with a keen sense of its incongruity with his present surroundings, but Ralph regretted it yet. In private he often solaced himself with the contemplation of a great roll of parchment, on which the family pedigree was set forth, and the last names on the list were Ralph and Maud de Warrington, written in a hand that, in spite of itself, was strongly suggestive of account books and ledgers.

It was a daily trial to this descendant of barons and earls to associate on equal terms with men of no family, like Bob Littleton and Mr. Milwood, and to take his orders from the lips of one whose boast was that he was a “self-made man.” He wished himself back in the Middle Ages, lord of a feudal castle and of submissive serfs and vassals. Alas! he had been born some centuries too late. The old distinction of his family was utterly forgotten, or was remembered only to point the careless jests of Bob Littleton and such as he.

But plebeian labor for his daily bread was not the worst that had befallen him. He had sunk lower yet. Against his will, with his eyes open to the degrading fact that her grandfather was neither more nor less than a “common workingman,” Ralph Warrington had stooped to fall in love with his master’s daughter. When Elsie Norbury came home, and he found himself falling a victim to her enchantments, he had wished to break the spell by leaving Wharton and Mr. Norbury’s office forever. But he had had his widowed mother to think of, and he had stayed, hoping to live his fancy down, and, instead, growing every day more enslaved.

Johnson, who came next below Warrington in office rank, it is scarcely necessary to describe particularly. The same may be said of one or two other young men working with more or less diligence at their desks; but though Bob Littleton has already been introduced to the reader, he perhaps deserves a word or two. Unlike Warrington, his ancestry was not among the grounds of his claim for consideration. Bob troubled himself little about such matters. His forefathers had been—well, Bob did not know exactly what they had been, and certainly no one else was likely to trouble to find out. His abilities were not above the average in any way, unless it might be in singing comic songs, in which art it must be allowed he excelled. Though his general knowledge of music was not great, he knew an almost unlimited number of the particular kind of ditties in which his soul delighted, and he was sure to charm an audience whose tastes lay in the same direction as his own. Unfortunately, the singer of comic songs is not always blessed with appreciative hearers, and the performer becomes doleful and the listeners are bored; but Bob’s good humor was infectious, and his audience had to be either very tragic in its mood or determinately ill-tempered to resist him long. Perhaps his appearance contributed to his success. He was not handsome—far from it; he was rather of a style of plainness—ugliness is too harsh a word—that was admirably adapted to comic songs. He was extremely short; his nose had a slight inclination upward; his eyes were gray, large, and somewhat prominent; he took great pains in the cultivation of a mustache, and was much addicted to wearing a white waistcoat in season and out of season. Most beholders were struck with a certain contradictoriness in his appearance; nature seemed to have manufactured him of odds and ends, without paying much regard to general harmony. The curve of his forehead suggested an entirely different shape of nose from that which actually adorned his face, while the prominence of his eyes was totally unexpected from the smallness of everything else about him. His good nature was untiring, and he was ready to do anything or everything in time of need. With his companions he was a far greater favorite, in spite of his love of teasing, than handsome, dignified, silent Ralph.

Charley Milwood was the youngest of the clerks, and still felt the dignity of being promoted from a school desk to an office stool. His chief characteristic was his extreme desire to attain the estate of manhood. He was consequently sensitive on the subject of his youth, and affected grown-up airs. He dressed as much like Warrington as he could, took immense pains to learn to smoke, and lost no opportunity of asserting his rights, especially in conversation. The other clerks expended a vast amount of labor in the attempt “to take him down,” with little perceptible effect for good or harm. Even in his present undeveloped condition he was not without his good points, but he was likely to be a pleasanter and more useful member of society when he had really attained to years of discretion. Dignity is never more apt to be troublesomely aggressive than when it is of doubtful right.

Charley’s privileges as a man extended to the fashionable office failing of falling in love with his master’s daughter, who was some five or six years older than himself. Not that that mattered; he felt old enough for anything, though in particularly sentimental moments the youthfulness of his own appearance distressed him.

Charley’s father, Mr. Milwood, had been employed in the mills for over twenty years. Mr. Norbury found him useful in so many different ways that his position would be by no means an easy one to define. All his life he had been overworked and underpaid, but he was a gentle-tempered, patient man, unaccustomed to complain, and slow to see that he was ill-used. Perhaps it had never dawned upon him that Mr. Norbury ought to have raised his salary; at least he did not object to doing an ever-increasing amount of work for the very same annual sum that he had received when the business was in its infancy. If he did view it as an injustice, he never mentioned the fact, but went on in his old fashion, thinking of his master’s interests before his own. He had a large family to support, and at times the struggle to provide for it was almost too much for him. He was naturally a silent man, with a quiet, subdued manner, and the heavy pressure of his life, with its unremitting toil and ceaseless anxiety, had increased this quietness as he grew older. He was over fifty now, but his amiability was still unsoured. As successive trials were passed and left behind, he grew only more patient and unselfish. In spite of all, Mr. Milwood was distinctly happy, for the peace that passeth understanding had raised him far above the sordid cares of his lot, and his inner life was absolutely unruffled by its outward storms and contests.