The Last Chronicle of Barset

by Anthony Trollope

  CHAPTER XII.

  MR. CRAWLEY SEEKS FOR SYMPATHY.

  Matters went very badly indeed in the parsonage house at Hogglestock.On the Friday morning, the morning of the day after his committal,Mr. Crawley got up very early, long before the daylight, and dressinghimself in the dark, groped his way downstairs. His wife havingvainly striven to persuade him to remain where he was, followedhim into the cold room below with a lighted candle. She found himstanding with his hat on and with his old cloak, as though he wereprepared to go out. "Why do you do this?" she said. "You will makeyourself ill with the cold and the night air; and then you, and Itoo, will be worse than we now are."

  "We cannot be worse. You cannot be worse, and for me it does notsignify. Let me pass."

  "I will not let you pass, Josiah. Be a man and bear it. Ask God forstrength, instead of seeking it in an over-indulgence of your ownsorrow."

  "Indulgence!"

  "Yes, love;--indulgence. It is indulgence. You will allow your mindto dwell on nothing for a moment but your own wrongs."

  "What else have I that I can think of? Is not all the world againstme?"

  "Am I against you?"

  "Sometimes I think you are. When you accuse me of self-indulgence youare against me,--me, who for myself have desired nothing but to beallowed to do my duty, and to have bread enough to keep me alive, andclothes enough to make me decent."

  "Is it not self-indulgence, this giving way to grief? Who would knowso well as you how to teach the lesson of endurance to others? Come,love. Lay down your hat. It cannot be fitting that you should go outinto the wet and cold of the raw morning."

  For a moment he hesitated, but as she raised her hand to take hiscloak from him he drew back from her, and would not permit it. "Ishall find those up whom I want to see," he said. "I must visit myflock, and I dare not go through the parish by daylight lest theyhoot after me as a thief."

  "Not one in Hogglestock would say a word to insult you."

  "Would they not? The very children in the school whisper at me. Letme pass, I say. It has not as yet come to that, that I should bestopped in my egress and ingress. They have--bailed me; and whiletheir bail lasts, I may go where I will."

  "Oh, Josiah, what words to me! Have I ever stopped your liberty?Would I not give my life to secure it?"

  "Let me go, then, now. I tell you that I have business in hand."

  "But I will go with you? I will be ready in an instant."

  "You go! Why should you go? Are there not the children for you tomind?"

  "There is only Jane."

  "Stay with her, then. Why should you go about the parish?" Shestill held him by the cloak, and looked anxiously up into his face."Woman," he said, raising his voice, "what is it that you dread? Icommand you to tell me what is it that you fear?" He had now takenhold of her by the shoulder, slightly thrusting her from him, so thathe might see her face by the dim light of the single candle. "Speak,I say. What is that you think that I shall do?"

  "Dearest, I know that you will be better at home, better with me,than you can be on such a morning as this out in the cold damp air."

  "And is that all?" He looked hard at her, while she returned his gazewith beseeching loving eyes. "Is there nothing behind, that you willnot tell me?"

  She paused for a moment before she replied. She had never lied tohim. She could not lie to him. "I wish you knew my heart towardsyou," she said, "with all and everything in it."

  "I know your heart well, but I want to know your mind. Why would youpersuade me not to go out among my poor?"

  "Because it will be bad for you to be out alone in the dark lanes, inthe mud and wet, thinking of your sorrow. You will brood over it tillyou will lose your senses through the intensity of your grief. Youwill stand out in the cold air, forgetful of everything around you,till your limbs will be numbed, and your blood chilled,--"

  "And then--?"

  "Oh, Josiah, do not hold me like that, and look at me so angrily."

  "And even then I will bear my burden till the Lord in His mercy shallsee fit to relieve me. Even then I will endure, though a bare bodkinor a leaf of hemlock would put an end to it. Let me pass on you needfear nothing."

  She did let him pass without another word, and he went out of thehouse, shutting the door after him noiselessly, and closing thewicket-gate of the garden. For a while she sat herself down on thenearest chair, and tried to make up her mind how she might best treathim in his present state of mind. As regarded the present morningher heart was at ease. She knew that he would do now nothing of thatwhich she had apprehended. She could trust him not to be false inhis word to her, though she could not before have trusted him notto commit so much heavier a sin. If he would really employ himselffrom morning till night among the poor, he would be better so,--histrouble would be easier of endurance,--than with any other employmentwhich he could adopt. What she most dreaded was that he should sitidle over the fire and do nothing. When he was so seated she couldread his mind, as though it was open to her as a book. She had beenquite right when she had accused him of over-indulgence in his grief.He did give way to it till it became a luxury to him,--a luxury whichshe would not have had the heart to deny him, had she not felt itto be of all luxuries the most pernicious. During these long hours,in which he would sit speechless, doing nothing, he was tellinghimself from minute to minute that of all God's creatures he wasthe most heavily afflicted, and was revelling in the sense of theinjustice done to him. He was recalling all the facts of his life,his education, which had been costly, and, as regarded knowledge,successful; his vocation to the church, when in his youth hehad determined to devote himself to the service of his Saviour,disregarding promotion or the favour of men; the short, sweet daysof his early love, in which he had devoted himself again,--thinkingnothing of self, but everything of her; his diligent working, inwhich he had ever done his very utmost for the parish in which he wasplaced, and always his best for the poorest; the success of othermen who had been his compeers, and, as he too often told himself,intellectually his inferiors; then of his children, who had beencarried off from his love to the churchyard,--over whose graves hehimself had stood, reading out the pathetic words of the funeralservice with unswerving voice and a bleeding heart; and then of hischildren still living, who loved their mother so much better thanthey loved him. And he would recall all the circumstances of hispoverty,--how he had been driven to accept alms, to fly fromcreditors, to hide himself, to see his chairs and tables seizedbefore the eyes of those over whom he had been set as their spiritualpastor. And in it all, I think, there was nothing so bitter to theman as the derogation from the spiritual grandeur of his positionas priest among men, which came as one necessary result from hispoverty. St. Paul could go forth without money in his purse or shoesto his feet or two suits to his back, and his poverty never stood inthe way of his preaching, or hindered the veneration of the faithful.St. Paul, indeed, was called upon to bear stripes, was flung intoprison, encountered terrible dangers. But Mr. Crawley,--so he toldhimself,--could have encountered all that without flinching. Thestripes and scorn of the unfaithful would have been nothing to him,if only the faithful would have believed in him, poor as he was, asthey would have believed in him had he been rich! Even they whom hehad most loved treated him almost with derision, because he was nowdifferent from them. Dean Arabin had laughed at him because he hadpersisted in walking ten miles through the mud instead of beingconveyed in the dean's carriage; and yet, after that, he had beendriven to accept the dean's charity! No one respected him. No one!His very wife thought that he was a lunatic. And now he had beenpublicly branded as a thief; and in all likelihood would end hisdays in a gaol! Such were always his thoughts as he sat idle, silent,moody, over the fire; and his wife well knew their currents. It wouldcertainly be better that he should drive himself to some employment,if any employment could be found possible to him.

  When she had been alone for a few minutes, Mrs. Crawley got up fromher chair, and going into the kitchen, lighted the fire there, an
dput the kettle over it, and began to prepare such breakfast forher husband as the means in the house afforded. Then she calledthe sleeping servant-girl, who was little more than a child, andwent into her own girl's room, and then she got into bed with herdaughter.

  "I have been up with your papa, dear, and I am cold."

  "Oh, mamma, poor mamma! Why is papa up so early?"

  "He has gone out to visit some of the brickmakers before they go totheir work. It is better for him to be employed."

  "But, mamma, it is pitch dark."

  "Yes, dear, it is still dark. Sleep again for a while, and I willsleep too. I think Grace will be here to-night, and then there willbe no room for me here."

  Mr. Crawley went forth and made his way with rapid steps to a portionof his parish nearly two miles distant from his house, through whichwas carried a canal, affording water communication in some intricateway both to London and Bristol. And on the brink of this canal therehad sprung up a colony of brickmakers, the nature of the earth inthose parts combining with the canal to make brickmaking a suitabletrade. The workmen there assembled were not, for the most part,native-born Hogglestockians, or folk descended from Hogglestockianparents. They had come thither from unknown regions, as labourers ofthat class do come when they are needed. Some young men from that andneighbouring parishes had joined themselves to the colony, allured bywages, and disregarding the menaces of the neighbouring farmers; butthey were all in appearance and manners nearer akin to the race ofnavvies than to ordinary rural labourers. They had a bad name in thecountry; but it may be that their name was worse than their deserts.The farmers hated them, and consequently they hated the farmers.They had a beershop, and a grocer's shop, and a huxter's shop fortheir own accommodation, and were consequently vilified by the smallold-established tradesmen around them. They got drunk occasionally,but I doubt whether they drank more than did the farmers themselveson market-day. They fought among themselves sometimes, but theyforgave each other freely, and seemed to have no objection to blackeyes. I fear that they were not always good to their wives, norwere their wives always good to them; but it should be rememberedthat among the poor, especially when they live in clusters, suchmisfortunes cannot be hidden as they may be amidst the decentbelongings of more wealthy people. That they worked very hard wascertain; and it was certain also that very few of their number evercame upon the poor rates. What became of the old brickmakers no oneknew. Who ever sees a worn-out aged navvie?

  Mr. Crawley, ever since his first coming into Hogglestock, had beenvery busy among these brickmakers, and by no means without success.Indeed the farmers had quarrelled with him because the brickmakershad so crowded the narrow parish church, as to leave but scant roomfor decent people. "Doo they folk pay tithes? That's what I want'un to tell me?" argued one farmer,--not altogether unnaturally,believing as he did that Mr. Crawley was paid by tithes out of hisown pocket. But Mr. Crawley had done his best to make the brickmakerswelcome at the church, scandalizing the farmers by causing themto sit or stand in any portion of the church which was hithertounappropriated. He had been constant in his personal visits to them,and had felt himself to be more a St. Paul with them than with anyother of his neighbours around him.

  It was a cold morning, but the rain of the preceding evening hadgiven way to frost, and the air, though sharp, was dry. The groundunder the feet was crisp, having felt the wind and frost, and was nolonger clogged with mud. In his present state of mind the walk wasgood for our poor pastor, and exhilarated him; but still, as he went,he thought always of his injuries. His own wife believed that he wasabout to commit suicide, and for so believing he was very angry withher; and yet, as he well knew, the idea of making away with himselfhad flitted through his own mind a dozen times. Not from his own wifecould he get real sympathy. He would see what he could do with acertain brickmaker of his acquaintance.

  "Are you here, Dan?" he said, knocking at the door of a cottage whichstood alone, close to the towing-path of the canal, and close also toa forlorn corner of the muddy, watery, ugly, disordered brickfield.It was now just past six o'clock, and the men would be rising, asin midwinter they commenced their work at seven. The cottage was anunalluring, straight brick-built tenement, seeming as though intendedto be one of a row which had never progressed beyond Number One. Avoice answered from the interior, inquiring who was the visitor, towhich Mr. Crawley replied by giving his name. Then the key was turnedin the lock, and Dan Morris, the brickmaker, appeared with a candlein his hand. He had been engaged in lighting the fire, with a view tohis own breakfast. "Where is your wife, Dan?" asked Mr. Crawley. Theman answered by pointing with a short poker, which he held in hishand, to the bed, which was half screened from the room by a raggedcurtain, which hung from the ceiling half-way down to the floor. "Andare the Darvels here?" asked Mr. Crawley. Then Morris, again usingthe poker, pointed upwards, showing that the Darvels were still intheir own allotted abode upstairs.

  "You're early out, Muster Crawley," said Morris, and then he went onwith his fire. "Drat the sticks, if they bean't as wet as the old'un hisself. Get up, old woman, and do you do it, for I can't. Theywun't kindle for me, nohow." But the old woman, having well noted thepresence of Mr. Crawley, thought it better to remain where she was.

  Mr. Crawley sat himself down by the obstinate fire, and began toarrange the sticks. "Dan, Dan," said a voice from the bed, "sure youwouldn't let his reverence trouble himself with the fire."

  "How be I to keep him from it, if he chooses? I didn't ax him." ThenMorris stood by and watched, and after a while Mr. Crawley succeededin his attempt.

  "How could it burn when you had not given the small spark a currentof air to help it?" said Mr. Crawley.

  "In course not," said the woman, "but he be such a stupid."

  The husband said no word in acknowledgment of this compliment, nordid he thank Mr. Crawley for what he had done, nor appear as thoughhe intended to take any notice of him. He was going on with his workwhen Mr. Crawley again interrupted him.

  "How did you get back from Silverbridge yesterday, Dan?"

  "Footed it,--all the blessed way."

  "It's only eight miles."

  "And I footed it there, and that's sixteen. And I paidone-and-sixpence for beer and grub;--s'help me, I did."

  "Dan!" said the voice from the bed, rebuking him for the improprietyof his language.

  "Well; I beg pardon, but I did. And they guv' me two bob;--just twoplain shillings, by ----"

  "Dan!"

  "And I'd 've arned three-and-six here at brickmaking easy; that'swhat I would. How's a poor man to live that way? They'll not cotch meat Barchester 'Sizes at that price; they may be sure of that. Lookthere,--that's what I've got for my day." And he put his hand intohis breeches'-pocket and fetched out a sixpence. "How's a man to fillhis belly out of that? Damnation!"

  "Dan!"

  "Well, what did I say? Hold your jaw, will you, and not be halloaingat me that way? I know what I'm a saying of, and what I'm a doingof."

  "I wish they'd given you something more with all my heart," saidCrawley.

  "We knows that," said the woman from the bed. "We is sure of that,your reverence."

  "Sixpence!" said the man, scornfully. "If they'd have guv me nothingat all but the run of my teeth at the public-house, I'd 've taken itbetter. But sixpence!"

  Then there was a pause. "And what have they given to me?" said Mr.Crawley, when the man's ill-humour about his sixpence had so farsubsided as to allow of his busying himself again about the premises.

  "Yes, indeed;--yes, indeed," said the woman. "Yes, yes, we feel that;we do indeed, Mr. Crawley."

  "I tell you what, sir; for another sixpence I'd 've sworn you'dnever guv' me the paper at all; and so I will now, if it bean't toolate;--sixpence or no sixpence. What do I care? d---- them."

  "Dan!"

  "And why shouldn't I? They hain't got brains enough among them towinny the truth from the lies,--not among the lot of 'em. I'll swearafore the judge that you didn't give it me at all, if that'
ll do anygood."

  "Man, do you think I would have you perjure yourself, even if thatwould do me a service? And do you think that any man was ever servedby a lie?"

  "Faix, among them chaps it don't do to tell them too much of thetruth. Look at that!" And he brought out the sixpence again from hisbreeches'-pocket. "And look at your reverence. Only that they've letyou out for a while, they've been nigh as hard on you as though youwere one of us."

  "If they think that I stole it, they have been right," said Mr.Crawley.

  "It's been along of that chap, Soames," said the woman. "The lordwould 've paid the money out of his own pocket and never said not aword."

  "If they think that I've been a thief, they've done right," repeatedMr. Crawley. "But how can they think so? How can they think so? HaveI lived like a thief among them?"

  "For the matter o' that, if a man ain't paid for his work by them asis his employers, he must pay hisself. Them's my notions. Look atthat!" Whereupon he again pulled out the sixpence, and held it forthin the palm of his hand.

  "You believe, then," said Mr. Crawley, speaking very slowly, "that Idid steal the money. Speak out, Dan; I shall not be angry. As you goyou are honest men, and I want to know what such of you think aboutit."

  "He don't think nothing of the kind," said the woman, almost gettingout of bed in her energy. "If he'd athought the like o' that in hishead, I'd read 'un such a lesson he'd never think again the longestday he had to live."

  "Speak out, Dan," said the clergyman, not attending to the woman."You can understand that no good can come of a lie." Dan Morrisscratched his head. "Speak out, man, when I tell you," said Crawley.

  "Speak out, Dan."]

  "Drat it all," said Dan, "where's the use of so much jaw about it?"

  "Say you know his reverence is as innocent as the babe as isn'tborn," said the woman.

  "No; I won't,--say nothing of the kind," said Dan.

  "Speak out the truth," said Crawley.

  "They do say, among 'em," said Dan, "that you picked it up, and thengot a woolgathering in your head till you didn't rightly know whereit come from." Then he paused. "And after a bit you guv' it me to getthe money. Didn't you, now?"

  "I did."

  "And they do say if a poor man had done it, it'd been stealing, forsartain."

  "And I'm a poor man,--the poorest in all Hogglestock; and, therefore,of course, it is stealing. Of course I am a thief. Yes; of course Iam a thief. When did not the world believe the worst of the poor?"Having so spoken, Mr. Crawley rose from his chair and hurried out ofthe cottage, waiting no further reply from Dan Morris or his wife.And as he made his way slowly home, not going there by the directroad, but by a long circuit, he told himself that there could be nosympathy for him anywhere. Even Dan Morris, the brickmaker, thoughtthat he was a thief.

  "And am I a thief?" he said to himself, standing in the middle of theroad, with his hands up to his forehead.