Mr. Trimmer was old Herresford’s valet, who had been away for a long holiday—the first for many years. Trimmer was a power for good and evil—some said a greater power than Herresford himself, over whom he had gained a mental ascendency.
Mr. Trimmer was sixty at least. Yet, his face bore scarce a wrinkle, his back was as straight as any young man’s. His hair was coal black—Mrs. Ripon declared that he dyed it. And he was about Herresford’s height, spare of figure, and always faultlessly dressed in close-fitting garments with a tendency toward a horsey cut. His head was large, and his thick hair suggested a wig, for two curly locks were brushed forward and brought over the front of the ears, and at the summit of the forehead was a wonderful curl that would not have disgraced a hair-dresser’s window block. Faultless and trim, 174 with glistening black eyes that were ever wandering discreetly, he was the embodiment of alert watchfulness. He could efface himself utterly at times, and would stand in the background of the bedchamber, almost out of sight, and as still as if turned to stone.
Interviews with Herresford were generally carried on in Trimmer’s presence, but, although the old man frequently referred to Trimmer in his arguments and quarrels, the valet acutely avoided asserting himself beyond the bounds of the strictest decorum while visitors were present. But, when they were gone, Trimmer’s iron personality showed itself in a quiet hectoring, which made him the other’s master. Mr. Trimmer was financially quite independent of his employer’s ill humors. He was wealthy, and his name was mentioned by the other servants with ’bated breath. He was the owner of three saloons which he had bought from time to time. In short, Mr. Trimmer was a moneyed man. His was one of those strange natures which work in grooves and cannot get out of them. Nothing but the death of Herresford would persuade him to break the continuity of his service. His master might storm, and threaten, and dismiss him. It always came to nothing. Mr. Trimmer went on as usual, treating the miser as a child, and administering his affairs, both financial and domestic, with an iron hand.
Never before had he taken a holiday, and on his 175 return there was much anxiety. The servants at the Hall had hoped that he was really discharged, at last. But no, he came back, smiling sardonically, and, as he entered the front door—not the servants’ entrance—his eye roved everywhere in search of backsliding. Mrs. Ripon met him in the hall with a forced smile and a greeting, but she dared not offer to shake hands with the great man.
“Anything of importance since I have been away?” asked Mr. Trimmer.
“Yes, Mr. Trimmer. Mr. Herresford has changed his bedroom.”
“Humph! We’ll soon alter that,” murmured Trimmer.
“That’s what I told him, Mr. Trimmer. I said you’d be annoyed, and that he’d have to go back when you returned.”
“Just so, just so! Any trouble with his family?”
“Mr. Dick—I daresay you have heard.”