Mr. Crawley went forth and made his way with rapid steps to a portion of his parish nearly two miles distant 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 be 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 wornout aged navvie?
Mr. Crawley, ever since his 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 narrow 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 brickmakers welcome at the church, scandalizing 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 be 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 brickfield. 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 halfway 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 own 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 a stupid.”
The husband said no word in acknowledgment 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 the 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 would. 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’m a 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,” said 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 ‘ve 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 that any man was ever served by a lie?”
“Faix,