The Last Chronicle of Barset (51 page)

‘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 was mine of right, from whatever source it came to me. I know myself as no one else can know me, in spite of the wise man's motto. Had I picked up a cheque in my house, or on the road, I should not have slept till I had taken steps to restore it to the seeming owner. So much 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 – I certainly thought –'

‘You thought what?'

‘I thought that it had been given to me by my friend the dean. I remember well that I was in his library at Barchester, and I was somewhat provoked in spirit. There were lying on the floor hundreds of volumes, all glittering with gold, and reeking with new leather from the binders. He asked me to look at his toys. Why should I look at them? There was a time, but the other day it seemed, when he had been glad to borrow from me such treasures as I had. And it seemed to me that he was heartless in showing me these things. Well; I need not trouble 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 how low the spirit has grovelled. I had gone to him then because I had resolved to humble myself, and, for my wife's sake, to ask my friend – for money. With words which were very awkward – which no doubt were ungracious – I had asked him, and he had bid me follow him from his hall into his library. There he left me awhile, and on returning told me with a smile that he had sent for money – and, if I can remember, the sum he named was fifty pounds.'

‘But it has turned out, as you say, that you have paid fifty pounds with his money – besides the cheque.'

‘That is true – that is quite true. There is no doubt of that. But as I was saying – then he fell to talking about the books, and I was angered. I was very sore in my heart. From the moment in which the words of beggary had passed from my lips, I had repented. And he had laughed and had taken it gaily. I turned upon him and told him that I had 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 me go – telling me of my wife and of my children, and while he argued there came a knock at the door, and something was handed in, and I knew 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 to come from her hand. But I took it. What could I do when he reminded me 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 him sorrowing. I had never before come quite to that – though, indeed, it had in fact been often so before. What was the difference whether the alms 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 where 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. By George, yes! It's not so bad now as it used to be.'

‘But you have always earned your bread; bread for yourself, and bread for 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 than you, and I cannot earn my bare bread. Look at my clothes. If you had to 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 not look at it. And then there came an illness upon me, and I know not what passed. But two men who had been hard on me came to the house when I was out, and my wife was in a terrible state; and I gave her the 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 gave it her, I thought I gave it all; and yet afterwards I thought I remembered that in my illness I had found the cheque with the dean's money. But it was not so.'

‘You are sure of that?'

‘He has said that he put five notes of £10 each into the cover, and such notes I certainly gave to my wife.'

‘Where then did you get the cheque?' Mr Crawley again paused before he answered. ‘Surely, if you will exert your mind, you will remember,' 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 into his lap to nurse it, and began to think of it. He sat thinking of it for some minutes without a word – perhaps for five minutes, though the time seemed to be much longer to Mr Crawley, who was, however, determined that he would not interrupt him. And Mr Toogood's thoughts were at variance with Mr Toogood's former words. Perhaps, after all, this scheme of Mr Crawley's – or rather the mode of defence on which he had resolved without any scheme – might be the best of which the case admitted. It might be well that he should go into court without a lawyer. ‘He has convinced me of his innocence,' Mr Toogood said to himself, ‘and why should he not convince a jury? He has convinced me, not because I am specially soft, or because I love the man – for as to that I dislike him rather than otherwise – but because there is either real truth in his words, or else so well-feigned a show of truth that no jury can tell the difference. I think it is true. By George, I think he did get the twenty pounds honestly, and that he does not this moment know where he got it. He may have put his finger into my eye; but, if so, why not also into the eyes of a jury?' Then he released his leg, and spoke 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 say so.'

‘I haven't a doubt but that you're as innocent as I am.' Mr Toogood, as he said this, felt a little twinge of conscience. He did believe Mr Crawley to be innocent, but he was not so sure of it as his words would seem to imply. Nevertheless he repeated the words again – ‘as innocent as I am.'

‘I don't know,' said Mr Crawley. ‘I don't know. I think I am; but I don'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 cheque for
twenty pounds should account for his possession of it. If I understand the story aright, Mr Soames will be able to prove that he brought the cheque into your house, and, as far as he knows, never took it out again.'

‘I suppose so; all the same, if he brought it in, then did he also take it out again.'

‘I am saying what he will prove – or, in other words, what he will state upon oath. You can't contradict him. You can't get into the box to do it
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– even if that would be of any avail; and I am glad that you cannot, as it would be of no avail. And you can put no one else into the box who can do so.'

‘No; no.'

‘That is to say, we think you cannot do so. People can do so many things that they don't think they can do; and can't do so many things that 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 were there.'

‘I wish he might be there if he has anything to say, whether it might be 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 of souls 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 not a lawyer. Might I write a line to the dean – and to Mrs Dean if it seemed fit? You wouldn't mind that? As you have come to see your cousin at last – and very glad I am that you have – you must leave him 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 to the proposition. ‘And I'll tell you what, Mr Crawley; I am very fond of 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'll just
run down at the assizes. We have nothing to do in London when the judges are in the country – of course.' Mr Toogood looked into Mr Crawley's eyes as he said this, to see if his iniquity were detected, but the perpetual curate was altogether innocent in these matters. ‘Yes; I'll just run down for a mouthful of fresh air. Of course I shan't open my mouth in court. But I might say one word to the dean, if he's there – and one word to Mr Soames. Who is conducting the prosecution?' Mr Crawley said that Mr Walker was doing 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, if nothing else comes out between this and that – nothing, that is, that shall clear your memory about that unfortunate bit of paper, you must simply tell your story to the jury as you've told it to me. I don't think 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 a jury can convict you. At any rate I'll see you at Barchester, and I'll write a line or two before the trial, just to find out anything that can be found out. And you're sure you won't come and take a bit of mutton with us in the Square? The girls would be delighted to see you, and so would Maria.' Mr Crawley said that he was quite sure he could not do that, and then having tendered reiterated thanks to his new friend in words which were touching in spite of their old-fashioned gravity, he took his leave, and walked back again to the public-house at Paddington.

He returned home to Hogglestock on the same afternoon, reaching that place at nine in the evening. During the whole of the day after leaving Raymond's Buildings he was thinking of the lawyer, and of the words which the lawyer had spoken. Although he had been disposed to quarrel with Mr Toogood on many points, although he had been more than once disgusted by the attorney's bad taste, shocked by his low morality, and almost insulted by his easy familiarity,
still, when the interview was over, he liked the attorney. When first Mr Toogood had begun to talk, he regretted very much that he had subjected himself to the necessity of discussing his private affairs with such 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. He was tired and exhausted when he reached home, as he had eaten nothing but a biscuit or two since his breakfast; but his wife got him food and tea, and then asked him as to his success. ‘Was my cousin kind to you?'

‘Very kind – more than kind – perhaps somewhat too pressing in his kindness. But I find no fault. God forbid that I should. He is, I think, 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 someone will be there who will know how to give you assistance and advice.'

The letters had been brought into the breakfast-parlour at Plumstead Rectory one morning, and the archdeacon had inspected them all, and then thrown over to his wife her share of the spoil – as was the custom of the house. As to most of Mrs Grantly's letters, he never made any further inquiry. To letters from her sister, the dean's wife, he was profoundly indifferent, and rarely made any inquiry as to those which were directed in writing with which he was not familiar. But there were others as to which, as Mrs Grantly knew, he would
be sure to ask her questions if she did not show them. No note ever reached her from Lady Hartletop as to which he was not curious, and yet Lady Hartletop's notes very seldom contained much that was of interest. Now, on this morning, there came a letter which, as a matter of course, Mrs Grantly read at breakfast, and which, she knew, would not be allowed to disappear without inquiry. Nor, indeed, did she wish to keep the letter from her husband. It was too important to be so treated. But she would have been glad to gain time to think in what spirit she would discuss the contents of the letter – if only such time might be allowed to her. But the archdeacon would allow her no time. ‘What does Henry say, my dear?' he asked, before the breakfast things had been taken away.

‘What does he say? Well; he says –. I'll give you his letter to read by-and-by.'

‘And why not now?'

‘I thought I'd read it again myself, first.'

‘But if you have read it, I suppose you know what's in it?'

‘Not very clearly, as yet. However, there it is.' She knew very well that when she had once been asked for it, no peace would be allowed to her till he had seen it. And, alas! there was not much probability of peace in the house for some time after he should see it.

The archdeacon read the three or four lines in silence – and then he burst out. ‘He has, has he? Then, by heavens –'

‘Stop, dearest; stop,' said his wife, rising from her chair and coming over to him; ‘do not say words which you will surely repent.'