The Last Chronicle of Barset

CHAPTER XII

MR CRAW­LEY SEEKS FOR SYM­PA­THY

Mat­ters went very bad­ly in­deed in the par­son­age 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 dress­ing him­self in the dark, groped his way down­stairs. His wife hav­ing vain­ly striv­en to per­suade him to re­main where he was, fol­lowed him in­to the cold room be­low with a light­ed can­dle. She found him stand­ing with his hat on and with his old cloak, as though he were pre­pared to go out. ‘Why do you do this?’ she said. ‘You will make your­self ill with the cold and the night air; and then you, and I too, will be worse than we now are.’

‘We can­not be worse. You can­not be worse, and for me it does not sig­ni­fy. Let it pass.’

‘I will not let you pass, Josi­ah. Be a man and bear it. Ask God for strength, in­stead of seek­ing it in an over-​in­dul­gence of your own sor­row.’

‘In­dul­gence!’

‘Yes, love;–in­dul­gence. It is in­dul­gence. You will al­low your mind to dwell on noth­ing for a mo­ment but your own wrongs.’

‘What else have I that I can think of? Is not all the world against me?’

‘Am I against you?’

‘Some­times I think you are. When you ac­cuse me of self-​in­dul­gence you are against me–me, who for my­self have de­sired noth­ing but to be al­lowed to do my du­ty, and to have bread enough to keep me alive, and clothes to make me de­cent.’

‘Is it not self-​in­dul­gence, this giv­ing way to grief? Who would know so 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 out in­to the wet and cold of the raw morn­ing.’

For a mo­ment he hes­itat­ed, but as she raised her hand to take his cloak from him he drew back from her, and would not per­mit it. ‘I shall find those up whom I want to see,’ he said. ‘I must vis­it my flock, and I dare not go through the parish by day­light lest they hoot 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. Let me pass, I say. It has not yet come to that, that I should be stopped in my egress and ingress. They have–bailed me; and while their 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 well be ready in an in­stant.’

‘You go! Why should you go? Are there not the chil­dren for you to mind?’

‘There is on­ly Jane.’

‘Stay with her, then. Why should you go about the parish?’ She still held him by the cloak, and looked anx­ious­ly up in­to his face. ‘Wom­an,’ he said, rais­ing his voice, ‘what is that you dread? I com­mand you to tell me what it is you fear?’ He had now tak­en hold of her by the shoul­der, slight­ly thrust­ing her from him, so that he might see her face, by the dim light of the sin­gle can­dle. ‘Speak, I say. What is it that you think 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 gaze with be­seech­ing lov­ing eyes. ‘It there noth­ing be­hind, that you will not tell me?’

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

‘I know your heart well, but I want to know your mind. Why would you per­suade me not to go out among my poor?’

‘Be­cause it will be bad for you to be out alone in the dark lanes, in the mud and wet, think­ing of your sor­row. You will brood over it till you will lose your sens­es through the in­ten­si­ty of your grief. You will 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 shall see fit to re­lieve me. Even then I will en­dure, though a bare bod­kin or leaf of hem­lock would put an end to it. Let me pass on; you need fear noth­ing.’

She did let him pass with­out an­oth­er word, and he went out of the house, shut­ting the door af­ter him noise­less­ly, and clos­ing the wick­et gate of the gar­den. For a while she sat her­self down on the near­est chair, and tried to make up her mind how she might best treat him in his present state of mind. As re­gard­ed the present morn­ing her heart was at ease. She new that he would do now noth­ing of that which she had ap­pre­hend­ed. She could trust him not to be false in his word to her, though she could not be­fore have trust­ed him not to com­mit so much heav­ier a sin. If he would re­al­ly em­ploy him­self from morn­ing till night among the poor, he would be bet­ter so–his trou­ble would be eas­ier of en­durance–than with any oth­er em­ploy­ment which he could adopt. What she most dread­ed was that he should sit idle over the fire and do noth­ing. When he was so seat­ed she could read his mind, as though it was open to her as a book. She had been quite 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 which she would not have had the heart to de­ny him, had she not felt it to be of all lux­uries the most per­ni­cious. Dur­ing these long hours, in which he would sit speech­less, do­ing noth­ing, he was telling him­self from minute to minute that of all God’s crea­tures, he was the most heav­ily af­flict­ed, and was rev­el­ling in the sense of the in­jus­tice done to him. He was re­call­ing all the facts of life, his ed­uca­tion, which had been cost­ly, and, as re­gard­ed knowl­edge, suc­cess­ful; his vo­ca­tion to the Church, when in his youth he had de­ter­mined to de­vote him­self to the ser­vice of his Saviour, dis­re­gard­ing pro­mo­tion or the favour of men; the short, sweet days of his ear­ly love, in which he had de­vot­ed him­self again–think­ing noth­ing of self, but ev­ery­thing of her; his dili­gent work­ing, in which he had ev­er done his very ut­most for the parish in which he was placed, and al­ways his best for the poor­est; the suc­cess of oth­er men who had been his com­peers, and, as he too of­ten told him­self, in­tel­lec­tu­al­ly his in­fe­ri­ors; then of his chil­dren, who had been car­ried off from his love to the church­yard–over whose graves he him­self had stood, read­ing out the pa­thet­ic words of the fu­ner­al ser­vice with unswerv­ing voice and a bleed­ing heart; and then of his chil­dren still liv­ing, who loved their moth­er so much bet­ter than they loved him. And he would re­call the cir­cum­stances of their pover­ty–how he had been driv­en to ac­cept alms, to fly from cred­itors, to hide him­self, to see his chairs and ta­bles seized be­fore the eyes of those over whom he had been set as their spir­itu­al pas­tor. And in it all, I think, there was noth­ing so bit­ter to the man as the dero­ga­tion from the spir­itu­al grandeur of his po­si­tion as priest among men, which came as one nec­es­sary re­sult from his pover­ty. St Paul could go forth with­out mon­ey in his purse or shoes on his feet or two suits to his back, and his pover­ty nev­er stood in the way of his preach­ing, or hin­dered the ven­er­ation of the faith­ful. St Paul, in­deed, was called up­on to bear stripes, was flung in­to prison, en­coun­tered ter­ri­ble dan­gers. But Mr Craw­ley–so he told him­self–could have en­coun­tered all that with­out flinch­ing. The stripes and scorn of the un­faith­ful would have been noth­ing to him, if on­ly the faith­ful would have be­lieved in him, poor as he was, as they would have be­lieved in him had he been rich! Even they whom he had most loved and treat­ed him al­most with de­ri­sion, be­cause he was now dif­fer­ent from them. Dean Ara­bin had laughed at him be­cause he had per­sist­ed in walk­ing ten miles through the mud in­stead of be­ing con­veyed in the dean’s car­riage; and yet, af­ter that, he had been driv­en 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 been pub­licly brand­ed as a thief; and in all like­li­hood would end his days in a gaol! Such were al­ways his thoughts as he sat idle, silent, moody, over the fire; and his wife knew well their cur­rents. It would cer­tain­ly be bet­ter that he should drive him­self to some em­ploy­ment, if any em­ploy­ment could be found pos­si­ble for him.

When she had been alone for a few min­utes, Mrs Craw­ley got up from her chair, and go­ing in­to the kitchen, light­ed the fire there, and put the ket­tle over it, and be­gan to pre­pare such break­fast for her hus­band as the means in the house af­ford­ed. Then she called the sleep­ing ser­vant-​girl, who was lit­tle more than a child, and went in­to her own girl’s room, and then she got in­to bed with her daugh­ter.

‘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 to their 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 will sleep too. I think Grace will be here tonight, and then there will be no room for me here.’

Mr Craw­ley went forth and made his way with rapid steps to a por­tion of this parish near­ly two miles from his house, through which was car­ried a canal, af­ford­ing wa­ter com­mu­ni­ca­tion in some in­tri­cate way both to Lon­don and Bris­tol. And on the brink of this canal there had sprung up a colony of brick­mak­ers, the na­ture of the earth in those parts com­bin­ing with the canal to make brick­mak­ing a suit­able trade. The work­men there as­sem­bled were not, for the most part, na­tive-​born Hog­gle­stock­ians, or folk de­scend­ed from Hog­gle­stock­ian par­ents. They had come thith­er from un­known re­gions, as labour­ers of that class do come when they are need­ed. Some young men from that and neigh­bour­ing parish­es had joined them­selves to the colony, al­lured by wages, and dis­re­gard­ing the men­aces of the neigh­bour­ing farm­ers; but they were all in ap­pear­ance and man­ners near­er akin to the race of navvies than to or­di­nary ru­ral labour­ers. They had a bad name in the coun­try; 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 for their own ac­com­mo­da­tion, and were con­se­quent­ly vil­ified by the small old-​es­tab­lished trades­men around them. They got drunk oc­ca­sion­al­ly, but I doubt whether they drank more than did the farm­ers them­selves on mar­ket-​day. They fought among them­selves some­times, but they for­gave each oth­er freely, and seemed to have no ob­jec­tion to black eyes. I fear that they were not al­ways good to their wives, nor were their wives al­ways good to them; but it should be re­mem­bered that among the poor, es­pe­cial­ly when they live in clus­ters, such mis­for­tunes can­not be hid­den as they may amidst the de­cent be­long­ings of more wealthy peo­ple. That they worked very hard was cer­tain; and it was cer­tain al­so that very few of their num­ber ev­er came up­on the poor rates. What be­came of the old brick­mak­ers no one knew. Who ev­er sees a worn-​out navvy?

Mr Craw­ley, ev­er since first com­ing in­to Hog­gle­stock, had been very busy among these brick­mak­ers, and by no means with­out suc­cess. In­deed the farm­ers had quar­relled with him be­cause the brick­mak­ers had so crowd­ed the parish church, as to leave but scant room for 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 his own pock­et. But Mr Craw­ley had done his best to make the brick­mak­er wel­come at the church, scan­dal­is­ing the farm­ers by caus­ing them to sit or stand in any por­tion of the church which was hith­er­to un­ap­pro­pri­at­ed. He had been con­stant in his per­son­al vis­its to them, and had felt him­self to more a St Paul with them than with any oth­er of his neigh­bours around him.

It was a cold morn­ing, but the rain of the pre­ced­ing evening had giv­en way to frost, and the air, though sharp, was dry. The ground un­der the feet was crisp, hav­ing felt the wind and frost, and was no longer clogged with mud. In his present state of mind the walk was good for our poor pas­tor, and ex­hil­arat­ed him; but still, as he went, he thought al­ways of his in­juries. His own wife be­lieved that he was about to com­mit sui­cide, and for so be­liev­ing he was very an­gry with her; and yet, as he well knew, the idea of mak­ing away with him­self had flit­ted through his own mind a dozen times. Not from his own wife could he get re­al sym­pa­thy. He would see what he could do with a cer­tain brick­mak­er of his ac­quain­tance.

‘Are you here, Dan?’ he said, knock­ing at the door of a cot­tage which stood alone, close to the tow­ing path of the canal, and close al­so to a for­lorn cor­ner of the mud­dy, wa­tery, ug­ly, dis­or­dered brick-​field. It was now just past six o’clock, and the men would be ris­ing, as in mid­win­ter they com­menced their work at sev­en. The cot­tage was an un­al­lur­ing, straight brick-​built ten­ement, seem­ing as though in­tend­ed to be one of a row which had nev­er pro­gressed be­yond Num­ber One. A voice an­swered from the in­te­ri­or, in­quir­ing who was the vis­itor, to which Mr Craw­ley replied by giv­ing his name. Then the key was turned in the lock, and Dan Mor­ris, the brick­mak­er, ap­peared with a can­dle in his hand. He had been en­gaged in light­ing the fire, with a view to his own break­fast. ‘Where is your wife, Dan?’ asked Mr Craw­ley. The man an­swered by point­ing with a short pok­er, which he held in his hand, to the bed, which was half-​screened from the room by a ragged cur­tain, which hung from the ceil­ing half-​way down to the floor. ‘And are the Darvels here?’ asked Mr Craw­ley. Then Mor­ris, again us­ing the pok­er, point­ed up­wards, show­ing that the Darvels were still in their al­lot­ted abode up­stairs.

‘You’re ear­ly out, Muster Craw­ley,’ said Mor­ris, and then he went on with 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. They wun’t kin­dle for me, no­how.’ But the old wom­an, hav­ing well not­ed the pres­ence of Mr Craw­ley, thought it bet­ter to re­main where she was.

Mr Craw­ley sat him­self down by the ob­sti­nate fire, and be­gan to ar­range the sticks. ‘Dan, Dan,’ said a voice from the bed, ’sure you wouldn’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.’ Then Mor­ris stood by and watched, and af­ter a while Mr Craw­ley suc­ceed­ed in his at­tempt.

‘How could it burn when you had not giv­en the small spark a cur­rent of air to help it?’ said Mr Craw­ley.

‘In course not,’ said the wom­an, ‘but he be such stupid.’

The hus­band said no word in ac­knowl­edge­ment of this com­pli­ment, nor did he thank Mr Craw­ley for what he had done, nor ap­pear as though he in­tend­ed to take any no­tice of him. He was go­ing on with his work when 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 paid one-​and- six­pence for beer and grub;–s’help me I did.’

‘Dan!’ said a voice from the bed, re­buk­ing him for the im­pro­pri­ety of his lan­guage.

‘Well; I beg par­don, but I did. And they guv’me two bob;–just two plain shillings by–’

‘Dan!’

‘And I’d ‘ve arned three-​and-​six here at brick­mak­ing easy; that’s what I wuld. How’s a poor man to live that way? They’ll not cotch me at Barch­ester ‘Sizes at that price; they may be sure of that. Look there–that’s what I’ve got for my day.’ And he put his hand in­to his breech­es-​pock­et and fetched out a six­pence. ‘How’s a man to fill his bel­ly out of that. Damna­tion!’

‘Dan!’

‘Well, what did I say? Hold your jaw, will you, and not be hal­loaing at me that way? I know what I am say­ing of, and what I’m a do­ing of.’

‘I wish they’d giv­en you some­thing more with all my heart,’ said Craw­ley.

‘We knows that,’ cried the wom­an from the bed. ‘We is sure of that, your rev­er­ence.’

‘Six­pence!’ said the man, scorn­ful­ly. ‘If they’d have guv’ me noth­ing at all but the run of my teeth at the pub­lic-​house, I’d ‘ve tak­en it bet­ter. 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 far sub­sid­ed 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 have sworn you’d nev­er guv’ me the pa­per at all; and so I will now, if it bean’t too late;–six­pence or no six­pence. What do I care? D— them.’

‘Dan!’

‘And why shouldn’t I? They hain’t got brains enough among them to win­ny the truth from the lies–not among the lot of ‘em. I’ll swear afore the judge that you didn’t give it me at all, if that’ll do any good.’

‘Man, do you think I would have you per­jure your­self, even if that would do me a ser­vice? And do you think any man was ev­er served by a lie?’

‘Faix, among them chaps it don’t do to tell them too much of the truth. Look at that!’ And he brought out the six­pence again from his breech­es-​pock­et. ‘And look at your rev­er­ence. On­ly that they’ve let you out for a while, they’ve been nigh as hard on you as though you were 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 lord would’ve paid the mon­ey out of his own pock­et and nev­er said not a word.’

‘If they think that I’ve been a thief, they’ve done right,’ re­peat­ed Mr Craw­ley. ‘But how can they think so? How can they think so? Have I lived like a thief among them?’

‘For the mat­ter o’ that, if a man ain’t paid for his work by them as his em­ploy­ers, he must pay his­self. Them’s my no­tions. Look at that!’ Where­upon he again pulled out the six­pence, and held it forth in the palm of his hand.

‘You be­lieve, then,’ said Mr Craw­ley, speak­ing very slow­ly, ‘that I did steal the mon­ey. Speak out, Dan; I shall not be an­gry. As you go you are an hon­est men, and I want to know what such of you think about it.’

‘He don’t think noth­ing of the kind,’ said the wom­an, al­most get­ting out of bed in her en­er­gy. ‘If he’ thought the like o’ that in his head, I’d read ‘un such a les­son he’d nev­er think again the longest day he had to live.’

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

‘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’t born,’ said the wom­an.

‘No; I won’t–say any­thing of the kind,’ said Dan.

‘Speak out the truth,’ said Craw­ley.

‘They do say, among ‘em,’ said Dan, ‘that you picked it up, and then got wool­gath­er­ing in your head till you didn’t right­ly know where it come from.’ Then he paused. ‘And af­ter a bit you guv’ it me to get the mon­ey. Didn’t you, now?’

‘I did.’

‘And they do say if a poor man had done it, it’d be steal­ing, for sartin.’

‘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 I am a thief. When the world be­lieve the worst of the poor?’ Hav­ing so spo­ken, Mr Craw­ley rose from his chair and hur­ried out of the cot­tage, wait­ing for no fur­ther re­ply from Dan Mor­ris or his wife. And as he made his way slow­ly home, not go­ing there by the di­rect road, but by a long cir­cuit, he told him­self there could be no sym­pa­thy for him any­where. Even Dan Mor­ris, the brick­mak­er, thought that he was a thief.

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