"What takes place at the Board must be official."
"I should not mind that in the least. I should rather like it than otherwise."
"It simply amounts to this,—that we think you are taking a little too much on yourself. No doubt, it's a fault on the right side, and arises from your wishing to have the work well done."
"And if I don't do it, who will?" asked Crosbie.
"The Board is very well able to get through all that appertains to it. Come, Crosbie, you and I have known each other a great many years, and it would be pity that we should have any words. I have come to you in this way because it would be disagreeable to you to have any question raised officially. Optimist isn't given to being very angry, but he was downright angry yesterday. You had better take what I say in good part, and go along a little quieter."
But Crosbie was not in a humour to take anything quietly. He was sore all over, and prone to hit out at everybody that he met. "I have done my duty to the best of my ability, Mr Butterwell," he said, "and I believe I have done it well. I believe I know my duty here as well as any one can teach me. If I have done more than my share of work, it is because other people have done less than theirs." As he spoke, there was a black cloud upon his brow, and the Commissioner could perceive that the Secretary was very wrathful.
"Oh! very well," said Butterwell, rising from his chair. "I can only, under such circumstances, speak to the Chairman, and he will tell you what he thinks at the Board. I think you're foolish; I do, indeed. As for myself, I have only meant to act kindly by you." After that, Mr Butterwell took himself off.
On the same afternoon, Crosbie was summoned into the Board-room in the usual way, between two and three. This was a daily occurrence, as he always sat for about an hour with two out of the three Commissioners, after they had fortified themselves with a biscuit and a glass of sherry. On the present occasion, the usual amount of business was transacted, but it was done in a manner which made Crosbie feel that they did not all stand together on their usual footing. The three Commissioners were all there. The Chairman gave his directions in a solemn, pompous voice, which was by no means usual to him when he was in good humour. The Major said little or nothing; but there was a gleam of satisfied sarcasm in his eye. Things were going wrong at the Board, and he was pleased. Mr Butterwell was exceedingly civil in his demeanour, and rather more than ordinarily brisk. As soon as the regular work of the day was over, Mr Optimist shuffled about on his chair, rising from his seat, and then sitting down again. He looked through a lot of papers close to his hand, peering at them over his spectacles. Then he selected one, took off his spectacles, leaned back in his chair, and began his little speech.
"Mr Crosbie," he said, "we are all very much gratified,—very much gratified, indeed,—by your zeal and energy in the service."
"Thank you, sir," said Crosbie; "I am fond of the service."
"Exactly, exactly; we all feel that. But we think that you,—if I were to say take too much upon yourself, I should say, perhaps, more than we mean."
"Don't say more than you mean, Mr Optimist." Crosbie's eyes, as he spoke, gleamed slightly with his momentary triumph; as did also those of Major Fiasco.
"No, no, no," said Mr Optimist; "I would say rather less than more to so very good a public servant as yourself. But you, doubtless, understand me?"
"I don't think I do quite, sir. If I have not taken too much on me, what is it that I have done that I ought not to have done?"
"You have given directions in many cases for which you ought first to have received authority. Here is an instance," and the selected paper was at once brought out.
It was a matter in which the Secretary had been manifestly wrong according to written law, and he could not defend it on its own merits.
"If you wish me," said he, "to confine myself exactly to the positive instructions of the office, I will do so; but I think you will find it inconvenient."
"It will be far the best" said Mr Optimist.
"Very well," said Mr Crosbie, "it shall be done." And he at once determined to make himself as unpleasant to the three gentlemen in the room as he might find it within his power to do. He could make himself very unpleasant, but the unpleasantness would be as much to him as to them.
Nothing would now go right with him. He could look in no direction for satisfaction. He sauntered into Sebright's, as he went home, but he could not find words to speak to any one about the little matters of the day. He went home, and his wife, though she was up, complained still of her headache.
"I haven't been out of the house all day," she said, "and that has made it worse."
"I don't know how you are to get out if you won't walk," he answered.
Then there was no more said between them till they sat down to their meal.
Had the squire at Allington known all, he might, I think, have been satisfied with the punishment which Crosbie had encountered.
XLIX. Preparations for Going
"Mamma, read that letter."
It was Mrs Dale's eldest daughter who spoke to her, and they were alone together in the parlour at the Small House. Mrs Dale took the letter and read it very carefully. She then put it back into its envelope and returned it to Bell.
"It is, at any rate, a good letter, and, as I believe, tells the truth."
"I think it tells a little more than the truth, mamma. As you say, it is a well-written letter. He always writes well when he is in earnest. But yet—"
"Yet what, my dear?"
"There is more head than heart in it."
"If so, he will suffer the less; that is, if you are quite resolved in the matter."
"I am quite resolved, and I do not think he will suffer much. He would not, I suppose, have taken the trouble to write like that, if he did not wish this thing."
"I am quite sure that he does wish it, most earnestly; and that he will be greatly disappointed."
"As he would be if any other scheme did not turn out to his satisfaction; that is all."
The letter, of course, was from Bell's cousin Bernard, and containing the strongest plea he was able to make in favour of his suit for her hand. Bernard Dale was better able to press such a plea by letter than by spoken words. He was a man capable of doing anything well in the doing of which a little time for consideration might be given to him; but he had not in him that power of passion which will force a man to eloquence in asking for that which he desires to obtain. His letter on this occasion was long, and well argued. If there was little in it of passionate love, there was much of pleasant flattery. He told Bell how advantageous to both their families their marriage would be; he declared to her that his own feeling in the matter had been rendered stronger by absence; he alluded without boasting to his past career of life as her best guarantee for his future conduct; he explained to her that if this marriage could be arranged there need then, at any rate, be no further question as to his aunt removing with Lily from the Small House; and then he told her that his affection for herself was the absorbing passion of his existence. Had the letter been written with the view of obtaining from a third person a favourable verdict as to his suit, it would have been a very good letter indeed; but there was not a word in it that could stir the heart of such a girl as Bell Dale.
"Answer him kindly," Mrs Dale said.
"As kindly as I know how," said Bell. "I wish you would write the letter, mamma."
"I fear that would not do. What I should say would only tempt him to try again."
Mrs Dale knew very well,—had known for some months past,—that Bernard's suit was hopeless. She felt certain, although the matter had not been discussed between them, that whenever Dr Crofts might choose to come again and ask for her daughter's hand he would not be refused. Of the two men she probably liked Dr Crofts the best; but she liked them both, and she could not but remember that the one, in a worldly point of view, would be a very poor match, whereas the other would, in all respects, be excellent. She would not, on any account, say a word to influence her daughter, and knew, moreover, that no word which she could say would influence her; but she could not divest herself of some regret that it should be so.