“Just like my people,” said Uxmoor. “That is the worst of it: they resist their own improvement.”
“Yes, but,” said the doctress, “with monarchial power we can trample on them for their good. Outside Marks's door at the back there is a muck-heap, as he calls it; all the refuse of the house is thrown there; it is a horrible melange of organic matter and decaying vegetables, a hot-bed of fever and malaria. Suffocated and poisoned with the breath of a dozen persons, they open the window for fresh air, and in rushes typhoid from the stronghold its victims have built. Two children were buried from that house last year. They were both killed by the domestic arrangements as certainly as if they had been shot with a double-barreled pistol. The outside roses you admire so are as delusive as flattery; their sweetness covers a foul, unwholesome den.”
“Marks's cottage! The show place of the village!” Zoe Vizard flushed with indignation at the bold hand of truth so rudely applied to a pleasant and cherished illusion.
Vizard, more candid and open to new truths, shrugged his shoulders, and said, “What can I do more than I have done?”
“Oh, it is not your fault,” said the doctress, graciously. “It is theirs. Only, as you are their superior in intelligence and power, you might do something to put down indecency, immorality, and disease.”
“May I ask what?”
“Well, you might build a granary for the poor people's potatoes. No room can keep them dry; but you build your granary upon four pillars: then that is like a room over a cellar.”
“Well, I'll build it so—if I build it at all,” said Vizard, dryly. “What next?”
“Then you could make them stack their potatoes in the granary, and use the spare room, and so divide their families, and give morality a chance. The muck-heap you should disperse at once with the strong hand of power.”
At this last proposal, Squire Vizard—the truth must be told—delivered a long, plowman's whistle at the head of his own table.