“Gentle and mild,” said Marjory, attempting a laugh, which would not come; “perfumed and dainty. I am no exotic, Anne; I must breathe living air. I cannot breathe odors.”
Anne rose, and lifted her Bible from the table.
“The sublime of mild and gentle belongs to One greater than us; but I don’t want to compel you to these. Look here, Marjory.”
Marjory looked—read.
“ ‘Strength and honor are her clothing,’ ” and bowed her head, in token of being vanquished.
“You have nothing to oppose to my argument,” said Anne, smiling. “You are obliged to yield without a word. Let me convince you, Marjory, that we stoop mightily from our just position, when we condescend to meddle with such humiliating follies as the rights of women—that we do compromise our becoming dignity when we involve ourselves in a discreditable warfare, every step in advance of which is a further humiliation to us. I forgive you your share in this exploit with all my heart. I am not sorry the man is punished, though I would rather you had not been connected with his punishment. It is not very much, after all; but I do declare war against these polemics of yours—all and several.—I would have you more thoroughly woman-proud: it is by no means inconsistent with the truest humility. I would have you like this portrait; men do not paint in such vigorous colors now. Strength and honor, Marjory; household strength, and loftiness, and purity—better things than any imaginary rights that clamor themselves into mere words.”
Marjory was half angry, half smiling.
“Very gentle, and calm, and proper, for an example to me; and so nobody does us any injustice—nobody oppresses us? Very well: but I did not know it before.”
“Nay,” said Anne, playfully; “that is not what I said. But:
“ ‘The good old rule
Sufficeth me, the simple plan,
That they should take who have the power,
And they should keep who can.’ ”