Mrs. King came, and found the young Curate in such a state of indignation, as he could not keep to himself.  He had learnt more than he had ever known, or she had ever known, of the oppression that the farmer and his wife and Tom Boldre had practised on the friendless stranger, and he was burning with all the keen generous displeasure of one new to such base ways.  At the gate he had met, going home to dinner, John Farden with Mrs. Hayward, who had been charing at the farm.  Both had spoken out, and he had learned how far below the value of his labour the boy had been paid, how he had been struck, abused, and hunted about, as would never have been done to one who had a father to take his part.  And he had further heard Farden’s statement of having himself thrown away the eggs, and Mrs. Hayward’s declaration that she verily believed that the farmer only made the accusation an excuse for hurrying the lad off because he thought him faltering for a fever, and wouldn’t have him sick there.

This was shocking enough; Mr. Cope had thought it merely the kind-hearted woman’s angry construction, but it was still worse when he came to the farmer and his wife.

So used were they to think it their business to wring the utmost they could out of whatever came in their way, that they had not the slightest shame about it.  They thought they had done a thing to be proud of in making such a good bargain of the lad, and getting so much work out of him for so little pay; in fact, that they had been rather weakly kind in granting him the freedom of the hay-loft; the notion of his dishonesty was firmly fixed in their heads, though there was not a charge to bring against him.  This was chiefly because they had begun by setting him down as a convict, and because they could not imagine any one living honestly on what they gave him.  And lastly, the farmer thought the cleverest stroke of all, was the having got rid of him just as winter was coming on and work was scarce, and when there seemed to be a chance of his being laid up to encumber the rates.  Mr. Cope was quite breathless after the answer he had made to them.  He had never spoken so strongly in his life before, and he could hardly believe his own ears, that people could be found, not only to do such things, but to be proud of having done them.

It is to be hoped there are not many such thoroughgoing tyrants; but selfishness is always ready to make any one into a tyrant, and Mammon is a false god, who manages to make his servants satisfied that they are doing their duty.

It was plain enough that no help was to be expected from the farm, and neither Mrs. King nor the clergyman thought there was much hope in the Guardians; however, they were to be applied to, and this would be at least a reprieve for Paul.  Mr. Cope went up to see him, and found Harold sitting on the top step of the stairs.

‘Well, boys,’ he said, in his hearty voice, ’so you’ve had a battle, I hear.  I’m glad it turned out better than your namesake’s at Hastings.’