"Our landlord is Colonel Hargrave, a very brave officer, I have heard; but, in looking for glory abroad, he has, unfortunately for himself and us, forgotten his dependents at home. He has scarcely seen anything of us since he came into the property."
"But surely," said the stranger, warmly, "if he did spend his time beyond the seas—I dare say, for some private reason—he must have left some trusty steward, who could take charge of his property during his absence, and protect the labourers on his estate from the privations you speak of?"
"Trusty steward, indeed," Martin began, in a growling voice, but Giles again interrupted him.
"Sir, it is kind of you to take so much interest in our concerns. It may be that you have estates somewhere yourself—it may be that you have left them to the care of others, believing that you are trusting honest servants; but, if you could see how much we have suffered, you would never do so again. Our landlord has left with us an oppressive and cruel man, who takes pleasure in shewing his power in the smallest thing. In our good lady's time, we were allowed to pick up any wood that the wind blew down, so that our firing cost us next to nothing; but now this is entirely done away by the keepers. Many of our little rights too he has taken away, according, as he says, to his master's orders, though 'tis not very likely a gentleman abroad would think of such things so many miles away. He receives our rents without spending any part of them in repairing our cottages, and the consequence is, they are tumbling down for want of repair, while the same rent is demanded for them. This brings much illness and discomfort—but what I lament over most," said the old man, with a sigh, "is that the feelings of every one are aggravated against Colonel Hargrave, who, it may be, knows nothing about it."
"Then he ought to know," said Martin.
"There is a sad spirit spreading, sir," said Giles, casting, as he continued, a reproving look on Martin, "amongst our young men, and a hatred of the gentry, which cannot be right, though it is hard to keep them from it when we have so much privation."
"Aye, that is true enough," said Martin, glancing at his younger companions.
"Why do you not write to Colonel Hargrave?" said the stranger, bending forwards, and suffering his large full eye to fall on Martin for an instant, "surely you should not judge him so hastily."
"Parson Ware has written, and the only answer he gets is, that Mr. Rogers is an old and tried servant, and he can depend on his doing for the best."
A bitter laugh went round the circle in echo to this unpopular opinion.