CHAPTER XXXII.
MR. TOOGOOD.
Mr. Crawley had declared to Mr. Robarts, that he would summon nolegal aid to his assistance at the coming trial. The reader may,perhaps, remember the impetuosity with which he rejected the adviceon this subject which was conveyed to him by Mr. Robarts with all theauthority of Archdeacon Grantly's name. "Tell the archdeacon," he hadsaid, "that I will have none of his advice." And then Mr. Robarts hadleft him, fully convinced that any further interference on his partcould be of no avail. Nevertheless, the words which had then beenspoken were not without effect. This coming trial was ever present toMr. Crawley's mind, and though, when driven to discuss the subject,he would speak of it with high spirit, as he had done both to thebishop and to Mr. Robarts, yet in his long hours of privacy, or whenalone with his wife, his spirit was anything but high. "It will killme," he would say to her. "I shall get salvation thus. Death willrelieve me, and I shall never be called upon to stand before thosecruel eager eyes." Then would she try to say words of comfort,sometimes soothing him as though he were a child, and at othersbidding him be a man, and remember that as a man he should havesufficient endurance to bear the eyes of any crowd that might bethere to look at him.
"I think I will go up to London," he said to her one evening, verysoon after the day of Mr. Robarts's visit.
"Go up to London, Josiah!" Mr. Crawley had not been up to Londononce since they had been settled at Hogglestock, and this suddenresolution on his part frightened his wife. "Go up to London,dearest! and why?"
"I will tell you why. They all say that I should speak to some man ofthe law whom I may trust about this coming trial. I trust no one inthese parts. Not, mark you, that I say that they are untrustworthy.God forbid that I should so speak or even so think of men whom Iknow not. But the matter has become so common in men's mouths atBarchester and at Silverbridge, that I cannot endure to go amongthem and to talk of it. I will go up to London, and I will see yourcousin, Mr. John Toogood, of Gray's Inn." Now in this scheme therewas an amount of everyday prudence which startled Mrs. Crawley almostas much as did the prospect of the difficulties to be overcome if thejourney were to be made. Her husband, in the first place, had neveronce seen Mr. John Toogood; and in days very long back, when he andshe were making their first gallant struggle,--for in those days ithad been gallant,--down in their Cornish curacy, he had reprobatedcertain Toogood civilities,--professional civilities,--which had beenproffered, perhaps, with too plain an intimation that on the scoreof relationship the professional work should be done without payment.The Mr. Toogood of those days, who had been Mrs. Crawley's uncle,and the father of Mrs. Eames and grandfather of our friend JohnnyEames, had been much angered by some correspondence which had grownup between him and Mr. Crawley, and from that day there had been acessation of all intercourse between the families. Since those daysthat Toogood had been gathered to the ancient Toogoods of old, andthe son reigned on the family throne in Raymond's Buildings. Thepresent Toogood was therefore first-cousin to Mrs. Crawley. Butthere had been no intimacy between them. Mrs. Crawley had not seenher cousin since her marriage,--as indeed she had seen none of herrelations, having been estranged from them by the singular bearing ofher husband. She knew that her cousin stood high in his profession,the firm of Toogood and Crump,--Crump and Toogood it should have beenproperly called in these days,--having always held its head up highabove all dirty work; and she felt that her husband could look foradvice from no better source. But how would such a one as he manageto tell his story to a stranger? Nay, how would he find his way aloneinto the lawyer's room, to tell his story at all,--so strange was heto the world? And then the expense! "If you do not wish me to applyto your cousin, say so, and there shall be an end of it," said Mr.Crawley in an angry tone.
"Of course I would wish it. I believe him to be an excellent man, anda good lawyer."
"Then why should I not go to his chambers? In forma pauperis I mustgo to him, and must tell him so. I cannot pay him for the labour ofhis counsel, nor for such minutes of his time as I shall use."
"Oh, Josiah, you need not speak of that."
"But I must speak of it. Can I go to a professional man, who keepsas it were his shop open for those who may think fit to come, andpurchase of him, and take of his goods, and afterwards, when thegoods have been used, tell him that I have not the price in my hand?I will not do that, Mary. You think that I am mad, that I know notwhat I do. Yes,--I see it in your eyes; and you are sometimes partlyright. But I am not so mad but that I know what is honest. I willtell your cousin that I am sore straitened, and brought down intothe very dust by misfortune. And I will beseech him, for what ofancient feeling of family he may bear to you, to listen to me for awhile. And I will be very short, and, if need be, will bide his timepatiently, and perhaps he may say a word to me that may be of use."
There was certainly very much in this to provoke Mrs. Crawley. Itwas not only that she knew well that her cousin would give ampleand immediate attention, and lend himself thoroughly to the matterwithout any idea of payment,--but that she could not quite believethat her husband's humility was true humility. She strove to believeit, but knew that she failed. After all it was only a feeling on herpart. There was no argument within herself about it. An unpleasanttaste came across the palate of her mind, as such a savour willsometimes, from some unexpected source, come across the palate of themouth. Well; she could only gulp at it, and swallow it and excuse it.Among the salad that comes from your garden a bitter leaf will nowand then make its way into your salad-bowl. Alas, there were so manybitter leaves ever making their way into her bowl! "What I mean is,Josiah, that no long explanation will be needed. I think, from what Iremember of him, that he would do for us anything that he could do."
"Then I will go to the man, and will humble myself before him. Eventhat, hard as it is to me, may be a duty that I owe." Mr. Crawley ashe said this was remembering the fact that he was a clergyman of theChurch of England, and that he had a rank of his own in the country,which, did he ever do such a thing as go out to dinner in company,would establish for him a certain right of precedence; whereas thisattorney, of whom he was speaking, was, so to say, nobody in the eyesof the world.
"There need be no humbling, Josiah, other than that which is due fromman to man in all circumstances. But never mind; we will not talkabout that. If it seems good to you, go to Mr. Toogood. I think thatit is good. May I write to him and say that you will go?"
"I will write myself; it will be more seemly."
Then the wife paused before she asked the next question,--paused forsome minute or two, and then asked it with anxious doubt,--"And mayI go with you, Josiah?"
"Why should two go when one can do the work?" he answered sharply."Have we money so much at command?"
"Indeed, no."
"You should go and do it all, for you are wiser in these things thanI am, were it not that I may not dare to show--that I submit myselfto my wife."
"Nay, my dear!"
"But it is ay, my dear. It is so. This is a thing such as men do; notsuch as women do, unless they be forlorn and unaided of men. I knowthat I am weak where you are strong; that I am crazed where you areclear-witted."
"I meant not that, Josiah. It was of your health that I thought."
"Nevertheless it is as I say; but, for all that, it may not be thatyou should do my work. There are those watching me who would say,'Lo! he confesses himself incapable.' And then some one would whispersomething of a madhouse. Mary, I fear that worse than a prison."
"May God in His mercy forbid such cruelty!"
"But I must look to it, my dear. Do you think that that woman, whosits there at Barchester in high places, disgracing herself and thatpuny ecclesiastical lord who is her husband,--do you think that shewould not immure me if she could? She is a she-wolf,--only lessreasonable than the dumb brute as she sharpens her teeth in malicecoming from anger, and not in malice coming from hunger as do theouter wolves of the forest. I tell you, Mary, that if she had acolourable ground for h
er action, she would swear to-morrow that I ammad."
"You shall go alone to London."
"Yes, I will go alone. They shall not say that I cannot yet do my ownwork as a man should do it. I stood up before him, the puny man whois called a bishop, and before her who makes herself great by hislittleness, and I scorned them both to their faces. Though the shoeswhich I had on were all broken, as I myself could not but see when Istood, yet I was greater than they were with all their purple andfine linen."
"But, Josiah, my cousin will not be harsh to you."
"Well,--and if he be not?"
"Ill-usage you can bear; and violent ill-usage, such as that whichMrs. Proudie allowed herself to exhibit, you can repay with interest;but kindness seems to be too heavy a burden for you."
"I will struggle. I will endeavour. I will speak but little, and, ifpossible, I will listen much. Now, my dear, I will write to this man,and you shall give me the address that is proper for him." Then hewrote the letter, not accepting a word in the way of dictation fromhis wife, but "craving the great kindness of a short interview, forwhich he ventured to become a solicitor, urged thereto by his wife'sassurance that one with whom he was connected by family ties would doas much as this for the possible preservation of the honour of thefamily." In answer to this, Mr. Toogood wrote back as follows:--"DearMr. Crawley, I will be at my office all Thursday morning next fromten to two, and will take care that you shan't be kept waiting forme above ten minutes. You parsons never like waiting. But hadn't youbetter come and breakfast with me and Maria at nine? then we'd have atalk as we walk to the office. Yours always, THOMAS TOOGOOD." Andthe letter was dated from the attorney's private house in TavistockSquare.
"I am sure he means to be kind," said Mrs. Crawley.
"Doubtless he means to be kind. But his kindness is rough;--I willnot say unmannerly, as the word would be harsh. I have never evenseen the lady whom he calls Maria."
"She is his wife!"
"So I would venture to suppose; but she is unknown to me. I willwrite again, and thank him, and say that I will be with him at ten tothe moment."
There were still many things to be settled before the journey couldbe made. Mr. Crawley, in his first plan, proposed that he shouldgo up by night mail train, travelling in the third class, havingwalked over to Silverbridge to meet it; that he should then walkabout London from 5 A.M. to 10 A.M., and afterwards come down by anafternoon train to which a third class was also attached. But at lasthis wife persuaded him that such a task as that, performed in themiddle of the winter, would be enough to kill any man, and that,if attempted, it would certainly kill him; and he consented atlast to sleep the night in town,--being specially moved thereto bydiscovering that he could, in conformity with this scheme, get inand out of the train at a station considerably nearer to him thanSilverbridge, and that he could get a return-ticket at a third-classfare. The whole journey, he found, could be done for a pound,allowing him seven shillings for his night's expenses in Londonand out of the resources of the family there were produced twosovereigns, so that in the event of accident he would not utterly bea castaway from want of funds.
So he started on his journey after an early dinner, almost hopefulthrough the new excitement of a journey to London, and his wifewalked with him nearly as far as the station. "Do not reject mycousin's kindness," were the last words she spoke.
"For his professional kindness, if he will extend it to me, I willbe most thankful," he replied. She did not dare to say more; nor hadshe dared to write privately to her cousin, asking for any specialhelp, lest by doing so she should seem to impugn the sufficiency andstability of her husband's judgment. He got up to town late at night,and having made inquiry of one of the porters, he hired a bed forhimself in the neighbourhood of the railway station. Here he hada cup of tea and a morsel of bread-and-butter, and in the morninghe breakfasted again on the same fare. "No, I have no luggage,"he had said to the girl at the public-house, who had asked him asto his travelling gear. "If luggage be needed as a certificate ofrespectability, I will pass on elsewhere," said he. The girl stared,and assured him that she did not doubt his respectability. "Iam a clergyman of the Church of England," he had said, "but mycircumstances prevent me from seeking a more expensive lodging."They did their best to make him comfortable, and, I think, almostdisappointed him in not heaping further misfortunes on his head.
He was in Raymond's Buildings at half-past nine, and for half anhour walked up and down the umbrageous pavement,--it used to beumbrageous, but perhaps the trees have gone now,--before the doorsof the various chambers. He could hear the clock strike from Gray'sInn; and the moment that it had struck he was turning in, but wasencountered in the passage by Mr. Toogood, who was equally punctualwith himself. Strange stories about Mr. Crawley had reached Mr.Toogood's household, and that Maria, the mention of whose Christianname had been so offensive to the clergyman, had begged her husbandnot to be a moment late. Poor Mr. Toogood, who on ordinary daysdid perhaps take a few minutes' grace, was thus hurried away almostwith his breakfast in his throat, and, as we have seen, justsaved himself. "Perhaps, sir, you are Mr. Crawley?" he said, in agood-humoured, cheery voice. He was a good-humoured, cheery-lookingman, about fifty years of age, with grizzled hair and sunburnt face,and large whiskers. Nobody would have taken him to be a partner inany of those great houses of which we have read in history,--theQuirk, Gammon and Snaps of the profession, or the Dodson and Foggs,who are immortal.
"That is my name, sir," said Mr. Crawley, taking off his hat andbowing low, "and I am here by appointment to meet Mr. Toogood, thesolicitor, whose name I see affixed upon the door-post."
"I am Mr. Toogood, the solicitor, and I hope I see you quite well,Mr. Crawley." Then the attorney shook hands with the clergyman andpreceded him upstairs to the front room on the first floor. "Here weare, Mr. Crawley, and pray take a chair. I wish you could have madeit convenient to come and see us at home. We are rather long, as mywife says,--long in family, she means, and therefore are not verywell off for spare beds--"
"Oh, sir."
"I've twelve of 'em living, Mr. Crawley,--from eighteen years, theeldest,--a girl, down to eighteen months the youngest,--a boy, andthey go in and out, boy and girl, boy and girl, like the cogs of awheel. They ain't such far away distant cousins from your own youngones--only first, once, as we call it."
"I am aware that there is a family tie, or I should not have venturedto trouble you."
"Blood is thicker than water; isn't it? I often say that. I heardof one of your girls only yesterday. She is staying somewhere downin the country, not far from where my sister lives--Mrs. Eames, thewidow of poor John Eames, who never did any good in this world. Idaresay you've heard of her?"
"The name is familiar to me, Mr. Toogood."
"Of course it is. I've a nephew down there just now, and he sawyour girl the other day;--very highly he spoke of her too. Let mesee;--how many is it you have?"
"Three living, Mr. Toogood."
"I've just four times three;--that's the difference. But I comfortmyself with the text about the quiver you know; and I tell them thatwhen they've eat up all the butter, they'll have to take their breaddry."
"I trust the young people take your teaching in a proper spirit."
"I don't know much about spirit. There's spirit enough. My secondgirl, Lucy, told me that if I came home to-day without tickets forthe pantomime I shouldn't have any dinner allowed me. That's the waythey treat me. But we understand each other at home. We're all prettygood friends there, thank God. And there isn't a sick chick among theboiling."
"You have many mercies for which you should indeed be thankful," saidMr. Crawley, gravely.
"Yes, yes, yes; that's true. I think of that sometimes, thoughperhaps not so much as I ought to do. But the best way to be thankfulis to use the goods the gods provide you. 'The lovely Thais sitsbeside you. Take the goods the gods provide you.' I often say thatto my wife, till the children have got to calling her Thais. Thechildren have it pretty much their own way
with us, Mr. Crawley."
By this time Mr. Crawley was almost beside himself, and wasaltogether at a loss how to bring in the matter on which he wishedto speak. He had expected to find a man who in the hurry of Londonbusiness might perhaps just manage to spare him five minutes,--whowould grapple instantly with the subject that was to be discussedbetween them, would speak to him half-a-dozen hard words of wisdom,and would then dismiss him and turn on the instant to other mattersof important business;--but here was an easy familiar fellow, whoseemed to have nothing on earth to do, and who at this first meetinghad taken advantage of a distant family connexion to tell himeverything about the affairs of his own household. And then howpeculiar were the domestic traits which he told! What was Mr. Crawleyto say to a man who had taught his own children to call their motherThais? Of Thais Mr. Crawley did know something, and he forgot toremember that perhaps Mr. Toogood knew less. He felt it, however, tobe very difficult to submit the details of his case to a gentlemanwho talked in such a strain about his own wife and children.
But something must be done. Mr. Crawley, in his present frame ofmind, could not sit and talk about Thais all day. "Sir," he said,"the picture of your home is very pleasant, and I presume that plentyabounds there."
"Well, you know, pretty toll-loll for that. With twelve of 'em, Mr.Crawley, I needn't tell you they are not all going to have castlesand parks of their own, unless they can get 'em off their own bats.But I pay upwards of a hundred a year each for my eldest three boys'schooling, and I've been paying eighty for the girls. Put that andthat together and see what it comes to. Educate, educate, educate;that's my word."
"No better word can be spoken, sir."
"I don't think there's a girl in Tavistock Square that can beatPolly,--she's the eldest, called after her mother, you know;--thatcan beat her at the piano. And Lucy has read Lord Byron and Tom Mooreall through, every word of 'em. By Jove, I believe she knows most ofTom Moore by heart. And the young uns are coming on just as well."
"Perhaps, sir, as your time is, no doubt, precious--"
"Just at this time of the day we don't care so much about it, Mr.Crawley; and one doesn't catch a new cousin every day, you know."
"However, if you will allow me,--"
"We'll tackle to? Very well; so be it. Now, Mr. Crawley, let me hearwhat it is that I can do for you." Of a sudden, as Mr. Toogood spokethese last words, the whole tone of his voice seemed to change, andeven the position of his body became so much altered as to indicate adifferent kind of man. "You just tell your story in your own way, andI won't interrupt you till you've done. That's always the best."
"I must first crave your attention to an unfortunate preliminary,"said Mr. Crawley.
"And what is that?"
"I come before you in forma pauperis." Here Mr. Crawley paused andstood up before the attorney with his hands crossed one upon theother, bending low, as though calling attention to the poorness ofhis raiment. "I know that I have no justification for my conduct. Ihave nothing of reason to offer why I should trespass upon your time.I am a poor man, and cannot pay you for your services."
"Oh, bother!" said Mr. Toogood, jumping up out of his chair.
"I do not know whether your charity will grant me that which I ask--"
"Don't let's have any more of this," said the attorney. "We none ofus like this kind of thing at all. If I can be of any service to you,you're as welcome to it as flowers in May; and as for billing myfirst-cousin, which your wife is, I should as soon think of sendingin an account to my own."
"But, Mr. Toogood,--"
"Do you go on now with your story; I'll put the rest all right."
"I was bound to be explicit, Mr. Toogood."
"Very well; now you have been explicit with a vengeance, and you mayheave a-head. Let's hear the story, and if I can help you I will.When I've said that, you may be sure I mean it. I've heard somethingof it before; but let me hear it all from you."
Then Mr. Crawley began and told the story. Mr. Toogood was actuallytrue to his promise and let the narrator go on with his narrativewithout interruption. When Mr. Crawley came to his own statement thatthe cheque had been paid to him by Mr. Soames, and went on to saythat that statement had been false,--"I told him that, but I toldhim so wrongly," and then paused, thinking that the lawyer would asksome question, Mr. Toogood simply said, "Go on go on. I'll come backto all that when you've done." And he merely nodded his head whenMr. Crawley spoke of his second statement, that the money had comefrom the dean. "We had been bound together by close ties of earlyfamiliarity," said Mr. Crawley, "and in former years our estates inlife were the same. But he has prospered and I have failed. And whencreditors were importunate, I consented to accept relief in moneywhich had previously been often offered. And I must acknowledge,Mr. Toogood, while saying this, that I have known,--have known withheartfelt agony,--that at former times my wife has taken that frommy friend Mr. Arabin, with hand half-hidden from me, which I haverefused. Whether it be better to eat--the bread of charity,--ornot to eat bread at all, I, for myself, have no doubt," he said;"but when the want strikes one's wife and children, and the charitystrikes only oneself, then there is a doubt." When he spoke thus, Mr.Toogood got up, and thrusting his hands into his waistcoat pocketswalked about the room, exclaiming, "By George, by George, by George!"But he still let the man go on with his story, and heard him out atlast to the end.
"And they committed you for trial at the next Barchester assizes?"said the lawyer.
"They did."
"And you employed no lawyer before the magistrates?"
"None;--I refused to employ any one."
"You were wrong there, Mr. Crawley. I must be allowed to say that youwere wrong there."
"I may possibly have been so from your point of view, Mr. Toogood;but permit me to explain. I--"
"It's no good explaining now. Of course you must employ a lawyer foryour defence,--an attorney who will put the case into the hands ofcounsel."
"But that I cannot do, Mr. Toogood."
"You must do it. If you don't do it, your friends should do it foryou. If you don't do it, everybody will say you're mad. There isn'ta single solicitor you could find within half a mile of you at thismoment who wouldn't give you the same advice,--not a single man,either, who has got a head on his shoulders worth a turnip."
When Mr. Crawley was told that madness would be laid to his charge ifhe did not do as he was bid, his face became very black, and assumedsomething of that look of determined obstinacy which it had worn whenhe was standing in the presence of the bishop and Mrs. Proudie. "Itmay be so," he said. "It may be as you say, Mr. Toogood. But theseneighbours of yours, as to whose collected wisdom you speak with somuch certainty, would hardly recommend me to indulge in a luxury forwhich I have no means of paying."
"Who thinks about paying under such circumstances as these?"
"I do, Mr. Toogood."
"The wretchedest costermonger that comes to grief has a barrister ina wig and gown to give him his chance of escape."
"But I am not a costermonger, Mr. Toogood,--though more wretchedperhaps than any costermonger now in existence. It is my lot to haveto endure the sufferings of poverty, and at the same time not tobe exempt from those feelings of honour to which poverty is seldomsubject. I cannot afford to call in legal assistance for which Icannot pay,--and I will not do it."
"I'll carry the case through for you. It certainly is not just myline of business,--but I'll see it carried through for you."
"Out of your own pocket?"
"Never mind; when I say I'll do a thing, I'll do it."
"No, Mr. Toogood; this thing you can not do. But do not suppose I amthe less grateful."
"What is it I can do then? Why do you come to me if you won't take myadvice?"
After this the conversation went on for a considerable time withouttouching on any point which need be brought palpably before thereader's eye. The attorney continued to beg the clergyman to have hiscase managed in the usual way, and went so far as to tell hi
m thathe would be ill-treating his wife and family if he continued to beobstinate. But the clergyman was not shaken from his resolve, and wasat last able to ask Mr. Toogood what he had better do,--how he hadbetter attempt to defend himself,--on the understanding that no legalaid was to be employed. When this question was at last asked in sucha way as to demand an answer, Mr. Toogood sat for a moment or two insilence. He felt that an answer was not only demanded, but almostenforced; and yet there might be much difficulty in giving it.
"Mr. Toogood," said Mr. Crawley, seeing the attorney's hesitation, "Ideclare to you before God, that my only object will be to enable thejury to know about this sad matter all that I know myself. If I couldopen my breast to them I should be satisfied. But then a prisoner cansay nothing; and what he does say is ever accounted false."
"That is why you should have legal assistance."
"We had already come to a conclusion on that matter, as I thought,"said Mr. Crawley.
Mr. Toogood paused for another moment or two, and then dashed at hisanswer; or rather, dashed at a counter question. "Mr. Crawley, wheredid you get the cheque? You must pardon me, you know; or, if you wishit, I will not press the question. But so much hangs on that, youknow."
"Every thing would hang on it,--if I only knew."
"You mean that you forget?"
"Absolutely; totally. I wish, Mr. Toogood, I could explain to you thetoilsome perseverance with which I have cudgelled my poor brains,endeavouring to extract from them some scintilla of memory that wouldaid me."
"Could you have picked it up in the house?"
"No;--no; that I did not do. Dull as I am, I know so much. It wasmine of right, from whatever source it came to me. I know myself asno one else can know me, in spite of the wise man's motto. Had Ipicked up a cheque in my house, or on the road, I should not haveslept till I had taken steps to restore it to the seeming owner. Somuch I can say. But, otherwise, I am in such matters so shandy-pated,that I can trust myself to be sure of nothing. I thought;--Icertainly thought--"
"You thought what?"
"I thought that it had been given to me by my friend the dean. Iremember well that I was in his library at Barchester, and I wassomewhat provoked in spirit. There were lying on the floor hundredsof volumes, all glittering with gold, and reeking with new leatherfrom the binders. He asked me to look at his toys. Why should I lookat them? There was a time, but the other day it seemed, when he hadbeen glad to borrow from me such treasures as I had. And it seemed tome that he was heartless in showing me these things. Well; I need nottrouble you with all that."
"Go on--go on. Let me hear it all, and I shall learn something."
"I know now how vain, how vile I was. I always know afterwards howlow the spirit has grovelled. I had gone to him then because Ihad resolved to humble myself, and, for my wife's sake, to ask myfriend--for money. With words which were very awkward,--which nodoubt were ungracious--I had asked him, and he had bid me followhim from his hall into his library. There he left me awhile, and onreturning told me with a smile that he had sent for money,--and, ifI can remember, the sum he named was fifty pounds."
"But it has turned out, as you say, that you have paid fifty poundswith his money,--besides the cheque."
"That is true;--that is quite true. There is no doubt of that. Butas I was saying,--then he fell to talking about the books, and I wasangered. I was very sore in my heart. From the moment in which thewords of beggary had passed from my lips, I had repented. And he hadlaughed and had taken it gaily. I turned upon him and told him that Ihad changed my mind. I was grateful, but I would not have his money.And so I prepared to go. But he argued with me, and would not let mego,--telling me of my wife and of my children, and while he arguedthere came a knock at the door, and something was handed in, and Iknew that it was the hand of his wife."
"It was the money, I suppose?"
"Yes, Mr. Toogood; it was the money. And I became the more uneasy,because she herself is rich. I liked it the less because it seemed tocome from her hand. But I took it. What could I do when he remindedme that I could not keep my parish unless certain sums were paid?He gave me a little parcel in a cover, and I took it,--and left himsorrowing. I had never before come quite to that;--though, indeed, ithad in fact been often so before. What was the difference whether thealms were given into my hands or into my wife's?"
"You are too touchy about it all, Mr. Crawley."
"Of course I am. Do you try it, and see whether you will be touchy.You have worked hard at your profession, I daresay."
"Well, yes; pretty well. To tell the truth, I have worked hard. ByGeorge, yes! It's not so bad now as it used to be."
"But you have always earned your bread; bread for yourself, and breadfor your wife and little ones. You can buy tickets for the play."
"I couldn't always buy tickets, mind you."
"I have worked as hard, and yet I cannot get bread. I am older thanyou, and I cannot earn my bare bread. Look at my clothes. If you hadto go and beg from Mr. Crump, would not you be touchy?"
"As it happens, Crump isn't so well off as I am."
"Never mind. But I took it, and went home, and for two days I did notlook at it. And then there came an illness upon me, and I know notwhat passed. But two men who had been hard on me came to the housewhen I was out, and my wife was in a terrible state; and I gave herthe money, and she went into Silverbridge and paid them."
"And this cheque was with what you gave her?"
"No; I gave her money in notes,--just fifty pounds. When I gaveit her, I thought I gave it all; and yet afterwards I thought Iremembered that in my illness I had found the cheque with the dean'smoney. But it was not so."
"You are sure of that?"
"He has said that he put five notes of L10 each into the cover, andsuch notes I certainly gave to my wife."
"Where then did you get the cheque?" Mr. Crawley again pausedbefore he answered. "Surely, if you will exert your mind, you willremember," said the lawyer. "Where did you get the cheque?"
"I do not know."
Mr. Toogood threw himself back in his chair, took his knee up intohis lap to nurse it, and began to think of it. He sat thinking of itfor some minutes without a word,--perhaps for five minutes, thoughthe time seemed to be much longer to Mr. Crawley, who was, however,determined that he would not interrupt him. And Mr. Toogood'sthoughts were at variance with Mr. Toogood's former words. Perhaps,after all, this scheme of Mr. Crawley's,--or rather the mode ofdefence on which he had resolved without any scheme,--might be thebest of which the case admitted. It might be well that he should gointo court without a lawyer. "He has convinced me of his innocence,"Mr. Toogood said to himself, "and why should he not convince ajury? He has convinced me, not because I am specially soft, orbecause I love the man,--for as to that I dislike him rather thanotherwise;--but because there is either real truth in his words,or else so well-feigned a show of truth that no jury can tell thedifference. I think it is true. By George, I think he did get thetwenty pounds honestly, and that he does not this moment know wherehe got it. He may have put his finger into my eye; but, if so, whynot also into the eyes of a jury?" Then he released his leg, andspoke something of his thoughts aloud. "It's a sad story," he said;"a very sad story."
"Well, yes, it's sad enough. If you could see my house, you'd sayso."
"I haven't a doubt but what you're as innocent as I am." Mr. Toogood,as he said this, felt a little twinge of conscience. He did believeMr. Crawley to be innocent, but he was not so sure of it as his wordswould seem to imply. Nevertheless he repeated the words again;--"asinnocent as I am."
"I don't know," said Mr. Crawley. "I don't know. I think I am; but Idon't know."
"I believe you are. But you see the case is a very distressing one.A jury has a right to say that the man in possession of a chequefor twenty pounds should account for his possession of it. If Iunderstand the story aright, Mr. Soames will be able to prove that hebrought the cheque into your house, and, as far as he knows, nevertook it out again."
"I suppose so; all the same, if he brought it in, then did he alsotake it out again."
"I am saying what he will prove,--or, in other words, what he willstate upon oath. You can't contradict him. You can't get into the boxto do it,--even if that would be of any avail; and I am glad that youcannot, as it would be of no avail. And you can put no one else intothe box who can do so."
"No; no."
"That is to say, we think you cannot do so. People can do so manythings that they don't think they can do; and can't do so many thingsthat they think that they can do! When will the dean be home?"
"I don't know."
"Before the trial?"
"I don't know. I have no idea."
"It's almost a toss-up whether he'd do more harm or good if he werethere."
"I wish he might be there if he has anything to say, whether it mightbe for harm or good."
"And Mrs. Arabin;--she is with him?"
"They tell me she is not. She is in Europe. He is in Palestine."
"In Palestine, is he?"
"So they tell me. A dean can go where he likes. He has no cure ofsouls to stand in the way of his pleasures."
"He hasn't,--hasn't he? I wish I were a dean; that is, if I were nota lawyer. Might I write a line to the dean,--and to Mrs. Dean, ifit seemed fit? You wouldn't mind that? As you have come to see yourcousin at last,--and very glad I am that you have,--you must leavehim a little discretion. I won't say anything I oughtn't to say." Mr.Crawley opposed this scheme for some time, but at last consented tothe proposition. "And I'll tell you what, Mr. Crawley; I am very fondof cathedrals, I am indeed; and I have long wanted to see Barchester.There's a very fine what-you-may-call-em; isn't there? Well; I'lljust run down at the assizes. We have nothing to do in London whenthe judges are in the country,--of course." Mr. Toogood looked intoMr. Crawley's eyes as he said this, to see if his iniquity weredetected, but the perpetual curate was altogether innocent in thesematters. "Yes; I'll just run down for a mouthful of fresh air. Ofcourse I shan't open my mouth in court. But I might say one wordto the dean, if he's there;--and one word to Mr. Soames. Who isconducting the prosecution?" Mr. Crawley said that Mr. Walker wasdoing so. "Walker, Walker, Walker? oh,--yes; Walker and Winthrop,isn't it? A decent sort of man, I suppose?"
"I have heard nothing to his discredit, Mr. Toogood."
"And that's saying a great deal for a lawyer. Well, Mr. Crawley, ifnothing else comes out between this and that,--nothing, that is, thatshall clear your memory about that unfortunate bit of paper, you mustsimply tell your story to the jury as you've told it to me. I don'tthink any twelve men in England would convict you;--I don't indeed."
"You think they would not?"
"Of course I've only heard one side, Mr. Crawley."
"No,--no,--no, that is true."
"But judging as well as I can judge from one side, I don't think ajury can convict you. At any rate I'll see you at Barchester, andI'll write a line or two before the trial, just to find out anythingthat can be found out. And you're sure you won't come and take a bitof mutton with us in the Square? The girls would be delighted to seeyou, and so would Maria." Mr. Crawley said that he was quite surehe could not do that, and then having tendered reiterated thanksto his new friend in words which were touching in spite of theirold-fashioned gravity, he took his leave, and walked back again tothe public-house at Paddington.
He returned home to Hogglestock on the same afternoon, reaching thatplace at nine in the evening. During the whole of the day afterleaving Raymond's Buildings he was thinking of the lawyer, and of thewords which the lawyer had spoken. Although he had been disposed toquarrel with Mr. Toogood on many points, although he had been morethan once disgusted by the attorney's bad taste, shocked by his lowmorality, and almost insulted by his easy familiarity, still, whenthe interview was over, he liked the attorney. When first Mr. Toogoodhad begun to talk, he regretted very much that he had subjectedhimself to the necessity of discussing his private affairs withsuch a windbag of a man; but when he left the chamber he trusted Mr.Toogood altogether, and was very glad that he had sought his aid. Hewas tired and exhausted when he reached home, as he had eaten nothingbut a biscuit or two since his breakfast; but his wife got him foodand tea, and then asked him as to his success. "Was my cousin kind toyou?"
"Very kind,--more than kind,--perhaps somewhat too pressing in hiskindness. But I find no fault. God forbid that I should. He is, Ithink, a good man, and certainly has been good to me."
"And what is to be done?"
"He will write to the dean."
"I am glad of that."
"And he will be at Barchester."
"Thank God for that."
"But not as my lawyer."
"Nevertheless, I thank God that some one will be there who will knowhow to give you assistance and advice."