“Very well, sir,” said Mr. Wrinkell. “I can not conceal from you that it may have a bad effect—a painful effect.”
“Upon whom?” said Mr, Brownlow.
“Upon the other clerks. They are pretty steady—neither very good nor very bad; and he has been both good and bad,” said Mr. Wrinkell, stoutly. “It will have an unpleasant effect. They will say we make favorites, Mr. Brownlow. They have already said as much in respect to myself.”
“They had better mind their own affairs,” was all Mr. Brownlow said; but, nevertheless, when he went out into the office afterward, he imagined (prematurely, for it had not yet been communicated to them) that he read disgust in the eyes of his clerks; and he was not unmoved by it, any more than General Haman was by the contempt of the old man who sat in the gate.
CHAPTER XXI.
HOW A MAN CAN DO WHAT HE LIKES WITH HIS OWN.
It was not for some days that the clerks in Mr. Brownlow’s office found out the enormity of which their employer had been guilty—which was almost unfortunate, for he gave them full credit for their disapproval all the time. As it was, Mr. Wrinkell embodied within his own person all the disapprobation on a grand scale. It was not that he disapproved of Powys’s advancement. Without being overwhelmingly clever or fascinating, the young Canadian was one of those open-hearted open-eyed souls who find favor with most good people. There was no malice nor envy nor uncharitableness about him; he was ready to acknowledge every body’s good qualities, ready to appreciate whatever kindness might be offered to him, open to see all that was noble or pleasant or of good report—which is the quality of all others most generally wanting in a limited community, from an office up to—even a University. Mr. Wrinkell was a head clerk and a Dissenter, and not a tolerant man to speak of, but he liked the more generous breadth of nature without very well knowing why; and he was glad in his heart that the young fellow had “got on.” But still, for all that, he disapproved—not of Powys, but of Mr. Brownlow. It was caprice, and caprice was not to be supported—or it was from consideration of capability, apart from all question of standing in the office, which was, it must be allowed, more insupportable still. Mr. Wrinkell reflected that he had himself been nearly forty years in the employment of the Brownlows of Masterton without once having his salary doubled. And he felt that if such a dangerous precedent were once established, the consequences might be tremendous. Such a boy, for example, if he but happened to be clever and useful, might be put over every body’s head, before any body was aware. Mr. Wrinkell, who was grand vizier, was not afraid for his own place, but he felt that it was an example to be summarily discouraged. After all, when a man is not clever it is not his fault; whereas, when he is respectable and steady, the virtue and praise is purely his own. “It’s revolutionary,” he said to his wife. “There is Brown, who has been years and years in the office—there never was a steadier fellow. I don’t remember that he ever lost a day—except when he had that fever, you know; but twenty pound a year increase was as much as ever was given to him.”
“When he had the fever they were very kind to him,” said Mrs. Wrinkell; “and, after all, Mr. Brownlow has a right to do what he likes with his own.”
“He may have a right,” said Mr. Wrinkell, doubtfully, “but it’s a thing that always makes a heart-burning, and always will.”
“Well, William, we may be thankful it can’t make any difference to us,” said his wife. This was the sum of the good woman’s philosophy, but it answered very well. It was always her conviction that there will be peace in our day.