“It is but a moment back I was told that the spirit of resistance to our influence here arose from the wealthy independence of the people; now, I am informed it is their want and destitution suggest the opposition. I wish I could ascertain which of you is right.”
“It's little matter if our theory does not lead us to injustice,” said Mary, boldly. “Let me only ride back to the quarries, aunt, and tell these poor people that they 've nothing to fear,—that there is no thought of withdrawing from them their labor nor its hire. Their lives are, God knows, not overlaid with worldly blessings; let us not add one drop that we can spare to their cup of sorrow.”
“The young leddy says na mair than the fact; they're vara poor, and they 're vara dangerous!”
“How do you mean dangerous, sir?” asked Lady Dorothea, hastily.
“There's more out o' that barony at the assizes, my Leddy, than from any other on the property.”
“Starvation and crime are near relatives all the world over,” said Mary; “nor do I see that the way to cure the one is to increase the other.”
“Then let us get rid of both,” said Lady Dorothea. “I don't see why we are to nurse pauperism either into fever or rebellion. To feed people that they may live to infect you, or, perhaps, shoot you, is sorry policy. You showed me a plan for getting rid of them, Henderson,—something about throwing down their filthy hovels, or unroofing them, or something of that kind, and then they were to emigrate—I forget where—to America, I believe—and become excellent people, hard-working and quiet. I know it all sounded plausible and nice; tell Miss Martin your scheme, and if it does not fulfil all you calculated, it will at least serve for an example on the estate.”
“An example!” cried Mary. “Take care, my Lady. It's a dangerous precept you are about to inculcate, and admits of a terrible imitation!”
“Now you have decided me, Miss Martin,” said Lady Dorothea, haughtily.