"All laws spring from the state of society in which they are formed, brother," replied Walter Tracy; "and political economy is but the theory of certain dealings between man and man. But that society must be a fearful and iniquitous conspiracy where a few are rolling in riches, living in luxury, and rioting in idle wantonness, upon the produce of other men's labour who are suffering all the ills of extreme poverty, if not actually perishing for want. It is a gross and terrible anomaly, brother Arthur, to see the great mass of a people nearly destitute; to see many even dying of starvation; to see the honest and the industrious man unable, by the devotion of his whole time, and the exertion of all his energies, to obtain sufficient food for his family;--and yet to see enormous wealth, which, if the fruits of labour were fairly divided, would feed whole provinces of artizans, accumulating in the hands of a few men supported entirely by the labour of others. It is, I say, a gross and terrible anomaly; and it will bring its curse sooner or later."
"But you surely would not advocate an agrarian law," said Mr. Fleming. "That chimera has been slain a thousand times."
"Far from it!" exclaimed the old officer. "I would touch none of what are called the rights of property; but I would drive to the winds that most absurd of all false pretences, invented by the rich for the purpose of oppressing the poor; namely, that it is wrong and dangerous to interfere between master and workman. I contend, that instead of wrong and dangerous, it is right and safe; it is just and necessary. It is right to defend the weak against the strong; it is safe to ensure that despair does not give overwhelming vigour to the weak. But the question is not, what I would do. I was asked for an instance of the evils of the society in which we live. I have given you one, Arthur; but if that does not suit you, I could give a thousand others. I could show how that society, of which you are so fond, is wicked and iniquitous in every different direction, towards the rich as well as the poor; how it encourages vice and depresses virtue; how it leagues with crime and scouts honesty. I could point to the same course pursued towards man, and more especially towards woman."
"Let us run away, dear uncle," cried Rose, "before we are brought upon the carpet. I am of an excessively rebellious disposition, as you well know; and I am afraid if I hear any more of such doctrines, I shall revolt against the powers that be."
"The revolt of the roses!" cried her uncle, laughing; and very glad to change the subject, though it was a hobby. "Heaven forbid such a catastrophe amongst the flowers! But who would you revolt against, my Rose? Against the gardener, eh?" and he looked shrewdly from her to Emily, who smiled also. Rose coloured more than the occasion seemed to warrant; but Mr. Tracy, who was not in the secret of the gipsey's prophecy, joined in with high praises of his new gardener's science and taste.
"He is a stout, good-looking, courageous fellow, as ever lived," said General Tracy. "Pray, where did you pick him up, Arthur? He is not from this part of the country, I should imagine, by his tone and manners; for we are not the most polished, either in demeanour or language."
"He came to apply this morning," answered Mr. Tracy; "and brought high testimonials both of skill and character, from Roberts, the steward of Sir Harry Winslow, who is dead, you know. I suppose he has served over at Elmsly Park, though I never thought of inquiring; for I was so much pleased with him, in every respect, that I engaged him at once."
"Upon my word, things are going on very favourably, Rose," whispered General Tracy to his niece, in good-humoured malice. "Few sons-in-law are received with such prepossessions." But he suddenly perceived that Rose's fair face bore a look of much distress, and stopped at once in his career of raillery, though not without some surprise.
A pause ensued, only interrupted by Mr. Tracy drinking wine with the young clergyman, and a few quiet words between Fleming and Emily; and then Rose Tracy asked, with a sort of effort, "How long has Sir Harry Winslow been dead, papa?"
"I only heard of it yesterday," replied Mr. Tracy. "The funeral is to take place the day after to-morrow, I hear."