“I’ll carry the case through for you. It certainly is not just my line 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 am the less grateful.”
“What is it I can do then? Why do you come to me if you won’t take my advice?”
After this the conversation went on for a considerable time without touching on any point which need be brought palpably before the reader’s eye. The attorney continued to beg the clergyman to have his case managed in the usual way, and went so far as to tell him that he would be ill-treating his wife and family if he continued to be obstinate. But the clergyman was not shaken from his resolve, and was at last able to ask Mr. Toogood what he had better do—how he had better attempt to defend himself—on the understanding that no legal aid was to be employed. When this question was at last asked in such a way as to demand an answer, Mr. Toogood sat for a moment or two in silence. He felt that an answer was not only demanded, but almost enforced; and yet there might be much difficulty in giving it.
“Mr. Toogood,” said Mr. Crawley, seeing the attorney’s hesitation, “I declare to you before God, that my only object will be to enable the jury to know about this sad matter all that I know myself. If I could open my breast to them I should be satisfied. But then a prisoner can say 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 his answer; or rather, dashed at a counter question. “Mr. Crawley, where did you get the cheque? You must pardon me, you know; or, if you wish it, I will not press the question. But so much hangs on that, you know.”
“Everything would hang on it—if I only knew.”
“You mean that you forget?”
“Absolutely; totally. I wish, Mr. Toogood, I could explain to you the toilsome perseverance with which I have cudgelled my poor brains, endeavouring to extract from them some scintilla of memory that would aid 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 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
