“You shall go alone to London.”
“Yes, I will go alone. They shall not say that I cannot yet do my own work as a man should do it. I stood up before him, the puny man who is called a bishop, and before her who makes herself great by his littleness, and I scorned them both to their faces. Though the shoes which I had on were all broken, as I myself could not but see when I stood, yet I was greater than they were with all their purple and fine 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 which Mrs. 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, if possible, 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 he wrote the letter, not accepting a word in the way of dictation from his wife, but “craving the great kindness of a short interview, for which he ventured to become a solicitor, urged thereto by his wife’s assurance that one with whom he was connected by family ties would do as much as this for the possible preservation of the honour of the family.”
In answer to this, Mr. Toogood wrote back as follows:—“Dear Mr. Crawley, I will be at my office all Thursday morning next from ten to two, and will take care that you shan’t be kept waiting for me above ten minutes. You parsons never like waiting. But hadn’t you better come and breakfast with me and Maria at nine? then we’d have a talk as we walk to the office. Yours always, Thomas Toogood.” And the letter was dated from the attorney’s private house in Tavistock Square.
“I am sure he means to be kind,” said Mrs. Crawley.
“Doubtless he means to be kind. But his kindness is rough;—I will not say unmannerly, as the word would be harsh. I have never even seen the lady whom he calls Maria.”
“She is his wife!”
“So I would venture to suppose; but she is unknown to me. I will write again, and thank him, and say that I will be with him at ten to the moment.”
There were still many things to be settled before the journey could be made. Mr. Crawley, in his first plan, proposed that he should go up by night mail train, travelling in the third class, having walked over to Silverbridge to meet it; that he should then walk about London from 5 a.m. to 10 a.m., and afterwards come down by an afternoon train to which a third class was also attached. But at last his wife persuaded him that such a task as that, performed in the middle of the winter, would be enough to kill any man, and that, if attempted, it would certainly kill him; and he consented at last to sleep the night in town—being specially moved thereto by discovering that he could, in conformity with this scheme, get in and out of the train at a station considerably nearer to him than Silverbridge, and that he could get a return-ticket at a third-class fare. The whole journey, he found, could be done for a pound, allowing him seven shillings for his night’s expenses in London; and out of the resources of the family there were produced two sovereigns, so that in the event of accident he would not utterly be a castaway from want of funds.
So he started on his journey after an early dinner, almost hopeful through the new excitement of a journey to London, and his wife walked with him nearly as far as the station. “Do not reject my cousin’s kindness,” were the last words she spoke.
“For his professional kindness, if he will extend it to me, I will be most thankful,” he replied. She did not dare to say more; nor had she dared to write privately to her cousin, asking for any special help, lest by doing so she should seem to impugn the sufficiency and stability 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 for himself in the neighbourhood of the railway station. Here he had a cup of tea and a morsel of bread-and-butter, and in the morning he 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 as to his travelling gear. “If luggage be needed as a certificate of respectability, I will pass on elsewhere,” said he. The girl stared, and assured him that she did not doubt his respectability.
“I am a clergyman of the Church of England,” he had said, “but my circumstances prevent me from seeking a more expensive lodging.” They did their best to make him comfortable, and, I think, almost disappointed him in not heaping further misfortunes on his head.
He was in Raymond’s Buildings at half-past nine, and for half an hour walked up and down the umbrageous pavement—it used to be umbrageous, but perhaps the trees have gone now—before the doors of the various chambers. He could hear the clock strike from Gray’s Inn; and the moment that it had struck he was turning in, but was encountered in the passage by Mr. Toogood, who was equally punctual with himself. Strange stories about Mr. Crawley had
