The Small House at Allington Anthony Trollope (the top 100 crime novels of all time .TXT) đ
- Author: Anthony Trollope
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âUpon my word, that is serious,â said Mr. Butterwell, looking into the secretaryâs damaged face. âI donât think I would have come out if I had been you.â
âOf course itâs disagreeable,â said Crosbie; âbut itâs better to put up with it. Fellows do tell such horrid lies if a man isnât seen for a day or two. I believe itâs best to put a good face upon it.â
âThatâs more than you can do just at present, eh, Crosbie?â And then Mr. Butterwell tittered. âBut how on earth did it happen? The paper says that you pretty well killed the fellow who did it.â
âThe paper lies, as papers always do. I didnât touch him at all.â
âDidnât you, though? I should like to have had a poke at him after getting such a tap in the face as that.â
âThe policemen came, and all that sort of thing. One isnât allowed to fight it out in a row of that kind as one would have to do on Salisbury heath. Not that I mean to say that I could lick the fellow. Howâs a man to know whether he can or not?â
âHow, indeed, unless he gets a lickingâ âor gives it? But who was he, and whatâs this about his having been scorned by the noble family?â
âTrash and lies, of course. He had never seen any of the De Courcy people.â
âI suppose the truth is, it was about that otherâ âeh, Crosbie? I knew youâd find yourself in some trouble before youâd done.â
âI donât know what it was about, or why he should have made such a brute of himself. You have heard about those people at Allington?â
âOh, yes; I have heard about them.â
âGod knows, I didnât mean to say anything against them. They knew nothing about it.â
âBut the young fellow knew them? Ah, yes, I see all about it. He wants to step into your shoes. I canât say that he sets about it in a bad way. But what do you mean to do?â
âNothing.â
âNothing! Wonât that look queer? I think I should have him before the magistrates.â
âYou see, Butterwell, I am bound to spare that girlâs name. I know I have behaved badly.â
âWell, yes; I fear you have.â
Mr. Butterwell said this with some considerable amount of decision in his voice, as though he did not intend to mince matters, or in any way to hide his opinion. Crosbie had got into a way of condemning himself in this matter of his marriage, but was very anxious that others, on hearing such condemnation from him, should say something in the way of palliating his fault. It would be so easy for a friend to remark that such little peccadilloes were not altogether uncommon, and that it would sometimes happen in life that people did not know their own minds. He had hoped for some such benevolence from Fowler Pratt, but had hoped in vain. Butterwell was a good-natured, easy man, anxious to stand well with all about him, never pretending to any very high tone of feeling or of morals; and yet Butterwell would say no word of comfort to him. He could get no one to slur over his sin for him, as though it were no sinâ âonly an unfortunate mistake; no one but the De Courcys, who had, as it were, taken possession of him and swallowed him alive.
âIt canât be helped now,â said Crosbie. âBut as for that fellow who made such a brutal attack on me the other morning, he knows that he is safe behind her petticoats. I can do nothing which would not make some mention of her name necessary.â
âAh, yes; I see,â said Butterwell. âItâs very unfortunate; very. I donât know that I can do anything for you. Will you come before the Board today?â
âYes; of course I shall,â said Crosbie, who was becoming very sore. His sharp ear had told him that all Butterwellâs respect and cordiality were goneâ âat any rate for the time. Butterwell, though holding the higher official rank, had always been accustomed to treat him as though he, the inferior, were to be courted. He had possessed, and had known himself to possess, in his office as well as in the outside world, a sort of rank much higher than that which from his position he could claim legitimately. Now he was being deposed. There could be no better touchstone in such a matter than Butterwell. He would go as the world went, but he would perceive almost intuitively how the world intended to go. âTact, tact, tact,â as he was in the habit of saying to himself when walking along the paths of his Putney villa. Crosbie was now secretary, whereas a few months before he had been simply a clerk; but, nevertheless, Mr. Butterwellâs instinct told him that Crosbie had fallen. Therefore he declined to offer any sympathy to the man in his misfortune, and felt aware, as he left the secretaryâs room, that it might probably be some time before he visited it again.
Crosbie resolved in his soreness that henceforth he would brazen it out. He would go to the Board, with as much indifference as to his black eye as he was able to assume, and if anyone said aught to him he would be ready with his answer. He would go to his club, and let him who intended to show him any slight beware of him in his wrath. He could not turn upon John Eames, but he could turn upon others if it were necessary. He had not gained for himself a position before the world, and held it now for some years, to allow himself to be crushed at once because he had made a mistake. If the world, his world, chose to go to war with him, he would be ready for the fight. As for Butterwellâ âButterwell the incompetent, Butterwell the vapidâ âfor Butterwell, who in every little official difficulty had for years past come to him, he would let Butterwell know what it was
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