Wharton nodded at him approvingly.  By now he knew the majority of the men in each village by name, and never forgot a face or a biography.  “You’re right there, Watkins.  Eleven shillings, then, when it isn’t less, never more, and precious often less; and harvest money—­the people that are kind enough to come round and ask you to vote Tory for them make a deal of that, don’t they?—­and a few odds and ends here and there—­precious few of them!  There! that’s about it for wages, isn’t it?  Thirty pounds a year, somewhere about, to keep a wife and children on—­and for ten hours a day work, not counting meal times—­that’s it, I think.  Oh, you are well off!—­aren’t you?”

He dropped his arms, folded, on the desk in front of him, and paused to look at them, his bright kindling eye running over rank after rank.  A chuckle of rough laughter, bitter and jeering, ran through the benches.  Then they broke out and applauded him.

Well, and about their cottages?

His glance caught Marcella, passed to her mother sitting stiffly motionless under her veil.  He drew himself up, thought a moment, then threw himself far forward again over the desk as though the better to launch what he had to say, his voice taking a grinding determined note.

He had been in all parts of the division, he said; seen everything, inquired into everything.  No doubt, on the great properties there had been a good deal done of late years—­public opinion had effected something, the landlords had been forced to disgorge some of the gains wrested from labour, to pay for the decent housing of the labourer.  But did anybody suppose that enough had been done?  Why, he had seen dens—­aye, on the best properties—­not fit for the pigs that the farmers wouldn’t let the labourers keep, lest they should steal their straw for the littering of them!—­where a man was bound to live the life of a beast, and his children after him—­

A tall thin man of about sixty rose in his place, and pointed a long quavering finger at the speaker.

“What is it, Darwin? speak up!” said Wharton, dropping at once into the colloquial tone, and stooping forward to listen.

“My sleepin’ room’s six foot nine by seven foot six.  We have to shift our bed for the rain’s comin’ in, an’ yer may see for yoursels ther ain’t much room to shift it in.  An’ beyont us ther’s a room for the chillen, same size as ourn, an’ no window, nothin’ but the door into us.  Ov a summer night the chillen, three on ’em, is all of a sweat afore they’re asleep.  An’ no garden, an’ no chance o’ decent ways nohow.  An’ if yer ask for a bit o’ repairs yer get sworn at.  An’ that’s all that most on us can get out of Squire Boyce!”

There was a hasty whisper among some of the men round him, as they glanced over their shoulders at the two ladies on the back bench.  One or two of them half rose, and tried to pull him down.  Wharton looked at Marcella; it seemed to him he saw a sort of passionate satisfaction on her pale face, and in the erect carriage of her head.  Then she stooped to the side and whispered to her mother.  Mrs. Boyce shook her head and sat on, immovable.  All this took but a second or two.