The Last Chronicle of Barset

have I been from misdoubting the dean⁠—whom I have long known to be in all things a true and honest gentleman⁠—that I postponed the elaborated result of my own memory to his word. And I felt myself the more constrained to do this, because, in a moment of forgetfulness, in the wantonness of inconsiderate haste, with wicked thoughtlessness, I had allowed myself to make a false statement⁠—unwittingly false, indeed, nathless very false, unpardonably false. I had declared, without thinking, that the money had come to me from the hands of Mr. Soames, thereby seeming to cast a reflection upon that gentleman. When I had been guilty of so great a blunder, of so gross a violation of that ordinary care which should govern all words between man and man, especially when any question of money may be in doubt⁠—how could I expect that anyone should accept my statement when contravened by that made by the dean? How, in such an embarrassment, could I believe my own memory? Gentlemen, I did not believe my own memory. Though all the little circumstances of that envelope, with its rich but perilous freightage, came back upon me from time to time with an exactness that has appeared to me to be almost marvellous, yet I have told myself that it was not so! Gentlemen, if you please, we will go into the house; my wife is there, and should no longer be left in suspense.” They passed on in silence for a few steps, till Crawley spoke again. “Perhaps you will allow me the privilege to be alone with her for one minute⁠—but for a minute. Her thanks shall not be delayed, where thanks are so richly due.”

“Of course,” said Toogood, wiping his eyes with a large red bandana handkerchief. “By all means. We’ll take a little walk. Come along, major.” The major had turned his face away, and he also was weeping. “By George! I never heard such a thing in all my life,” said Toogood. “I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it. I wouldn’t, indeed. If I were to tell that up in London, nobody would believe me.”

“I call that man a hero,” said Grantly.

“I don’t know about being a hero. I never quite knew what makes a hero, if it isn’t having three or four girls dying in love for you at once. But to find a man who was going to let everything in the world go against him, because he believed another fellow better than himself! There’s many a chap thinks another man is woolgathering; but this man has thought he was woolgathering himself! It’s not natural; and the world wouldn’t go on if there were many like that. He’s beckoning, and we had better go in.”

Mr. Toogood went first, and the major followed him. When they entered the front door they saw the skirt of a woman’s dress flitting away through the door at the end of the passage, and on entering the room to the left they found Mr. Crawley alone. “She has fled, as though from an enemy,” he said, with a little attempt at a laugh; “but I will pursue her, and bring her back.”

“No, Crawley, no,” said the lawyer. “She’s a little upset, and all that kind of thing. We know what women are. Let her alone.”

“Nay, Mr. Toogood; but then she would be angered with herself afterwards, and would lack the comfort of having spoken a word of gratitude. Pardon me, Major Grantly; but I would not have you leave us till she has seen you. It is as her cousin says. She is somewhat overexcited. But still it will be best that she should see you. Gentlemen, you will excuse me.”

Then he went out to fetch his wife, and while he was away not a word was spoken. The major looked out of one window and Mr. Toogood out of the other, and they waited patiently till they heard the coming steps of the husband and wife. When the door was opened, Mr. Crawley appeared, leading his wife by the hand. “My dear,” he said, “you know Major Grantly. This is your cousin, Mr. Toogood. It is well that you know him too, and remember his great kindness to us.” But Mrs. Crawley could not speak. She could only sink on the sofa, and hide her face, while she strove in vain to repress her sobs. She had been very strong through all her husband’s troubles⁠—very strong in bearing for him what he could not bear for himself, and in fighting on his behalf battles in which he was altogether unable to couch a lance; but the endurance of so many troubles, and the great overwhelming sorrow at last, had so nearly overpowered her, that she could not sustain the shock of this turn in their fortunes. “She was never like this, sirs, when ill news came to us,” said Mr. Crawley, standing somewhat apart from her.

The major sat himself by her side, and put his hand upon hers, and whispered some word to her about her daughter. Upon this she threw her arms around him, and kissed his face, and then his hands, and then looked up into his face through her tears. She murmured some few words, or attempted to do so. I doubt whether the major understood their meaning, but he knew very well what was in her heart.

“And now I think we might as well be moving,” said Mr. Toogood. “I’ll see about having the indictment quashed. I’ll arrange all that with Walker. It may be necessary that you should go into Barchester the first day the judges sit; and if so, I’ll come and fetch you. You may be sure I won’t leave the place till it’s all square.”

As they were going, Grantly⁠—speaking now altogether with indifference as to Toogood’s presence⁠—asked Mr. Crawley’s leave to be the bearer of these tidings to his daughter.

“She can hear it in no tones that can be more