“Hush!” said Anne; “do not be so very profane, Marjory.—Do you remember how the Apostle describes it; those words that charm one’s ear like music, ‘the ornament of a meek and quiet spirit.’ Are not the very sounds beautiful? Mildness and gentleness are exceeding good things; but I do not set any sweet confection before me, for my model. Marjory! do you remember those other beautiful words; ‘Strength and honor are her clothing; she opens her mouth with wisdom, and in her lips is the law of kindness?’ There is nothing weak about that, and yet that seems to me a perfectly womanly woman.”
Marjory Falconer did not answer.
“But I feel quite sure,” said Anne, smiling, “that when she opened her mouth with wisdom, she never said a word about the rights of women; and that when her husband went out to the gate, to sit among the elders, she did not think her own position, sitting among her maidens, a whit less dignified and important than his, or envied him in any way indeed. When you are tempted Marjory with this favorite heresy of yours, read that beautiful poem—there is not a morsel of confectionery about it; you can see the woman, whose household was clad in scarlet, and whose children rose up and called her blessed, and know her a living person, as truly as you know yourself. You call me quiet, Marjory; I intend to be demonstrative to-day, at least, and I do utterly contemn and abominate all that rubbish of rights of women, and woman’s mission, and woman’s influence, and all the rest of it; I never hear these cant words, but I blush for them,” and Anne did blush, deeply as she spoke; “we are one half of the world—we have our work to do, like the other half—let us do our work as honorably and wisely as we can, but for pity’s sake, do not let us make this mighty bustle and noise about it. We have our own strength, and honor, and dignity—no one disputes it; but dignity, and strength and honor, Marjory, are things to live in us, not to be talked about; only do not let us be so thoroughly self-conscious—no one gains respect by claiming it. There! you are very much astonished and horror-stricken at my burst. I cannot help it.”
“Very well! very well!” exclaimed Miss Falconer, clapping her hands. “Utterly contemn and abominate! Hear, hear, hear! who could have believed it of quiet Anne Ross?”
Anne laughed. “Quiet Anne Ross is about to dare something further, Marjory. See; when did you cross the stepping-stones?”
They had reached them; three or four large, smooth stones, lay across the stream, at a point where it narrowed; the middle one was a great block of native marble, which had been there, firm in its centre, since ever the brown Oran was a living river. The passage was by no means perilous, except for people to whom a wet shoe was a great evil. It is not commonly so with youthful people in the country; it was a matter of the most perfect unconcern to Marjory Falconer.
“When did I cross the stepping-stones? Not for a good twelvemonth. I challenge you, Anne; if we should stumble, there is no one to see us but George. Come along.”
And Marjory, in the close-fitting, dark-cloth pelisse, which her old maid at Falcon’s Craig congratulated herself “could take no scather,” leaped lightly from stone to stone, across the placid, clear, brown water. Anne, rejoicing in the success of her scheme, followed. So did George, somewhat disappointed, at losing the expected fun, of a rencontre with “some o’ the feckless dandy chaps at Strathoran,” and the demolition of the barricade at the other end of the way.
They had to make a considerable circuit before they reached the road; but Anne endured that joyfully, when she saw through the trees the hirsute Mr. Fitzherbert, and some of his companions, assembled about the second stile—Marjory saw them too—the deep blush of shame returned to her cheek in overpowering pain: she did not say anything, but did not feel the less for that. Did Anne, indeed, need to scheme, for the preservation of her dignity?
Little Lilie came running forth from Mrs. Euphan Morison’s room, to meet them, as they crossed the bridge. Lilie had wonderful stories to tell of her long rambles with Jacky. The delicate moss on the tomb of the legendary maiden in the graveyard of Oranside, received more admiration from the child’s quick sense of beauty, than it could elicit from the common-place mind of Bessie; for Lilie thought the graveyard was “an awfu’ still place—nae sound but the water rinning, slow—slow; and the branches gaun wave wave; and the leaves on the wind’s feet, like the bonnie shoon the fairies wear; and a’ the folk lying quiet in their graves.”