The bright weeks of May stole on rapidly, and Anne had made no advance
in her search. Little Alice Aytoun, when she came to visit her, clung
round her neck anxiously, lifting up beseeching eyes to her face, but
Anne had no word of hopeful answer to give. Her own heart was sinking
day by day; the window of Patrick Lillie's study was still shut up and
dark; the old servant whom they had left behind them could give no
information as to their return. Anne was compelled to confess to herself
that her plan had failed--that except for her dim and mysterious
knowledge of these singular Lillies, she had not made a single step of
progress.
Then Lewis wrote letters, slightly querulous, requiring her presence at
home--and Mrs. Catherine sent one characteristic note promising, "if ye
will be a good bairn and come back, maybe to go with ye myself, when the
weather is more suiting for the seaside." She was doing no good in
Aberford; so with a heavy heart Anne returned home.
The first day after her arrival at Merkland, she visited the Mill. With
what strange feelings swelling in her heart did she draw the child to
her side, and take into her own its small soft hand. The little strange
exotic Lilie, the wonder of the quiet parish--was she indeed a Lilias
Rutherford?--a daughter of the banished Norman?--her own nearest kin and
relative?
"Jacky Morison's been up this morning already, Miss Anne," said Mrs.
Melder. "Indeed, and ye may think muckle o' yoursel, Lilie my
woman--baith leddy and maid comin anceerrant to see ye, the first thing
after their home-coming. She's an awfu' strange lassie yon, Miss Anne;
ane would think she had gotten some word o' the bairn that naebody else
kens. She was aye unco fond o' her, but now it's _Miss_ Lilie every
word."
Strange indeed! these intuitive perceptions of Jacky's puzzled Anne
greatly.
"That was what they called Lilie at home," said the child thoughtfully.
"Ay, listen till her; I dinna misdoubt it, Miss Anne--the folk that sent
a' yon bonnie things, maun be weel off in this world."
"Will you come and walk with me, Lilie?" said Anne: "see what a
beautiful day it is."
The child assented eagerly, and trying on her bonnet, Anne led her out.
They went to the foot of the tree on which were carved the names of
those two exiles--Norman and Marion. It was a fit resting-place for
their sister and their child. Anne seated herself on the turf, and
placed Lilie by her side.
"Can you tell me where your home is, Lilie?"
"Away yonder," said Lilie, "far away, over the sea."
"And what like is it?" said Anne, "do you remember?"
"A bonnie, bonnie place--where there's brighter light and warmer days;
and grand flowers far bigger than any in Strathoran; but its lang, lang
to sail, and whiles there were loud winds and storms, and Lilie wasna
weel."
"Would you like to go home, Lilie?" said Anne.
"I would like to go to mamma. I would like to go to my own mamma;
but--mamma doesna call yon place home."
"What does she call it, Lilie?"
"When mamma was putting Lilie into the big ship, she said Lilie was
coming home; and maybe she would come hersel for Lilie."
"And how did she look when she said that?" said Anne.
The child began to cry.
"She put down her head--my mamma's bonnie head--down into her hands,
this way; and then she began to greet, like me--oh, my mamma!"
Anne drew the little girl's head into her lap, and wiped away the tears.
"You would be very glad to see mamma, Lilie, if she came here? she will
come perhaps some day."
"Do you ken my mamma?" said Lilie eagerly. "Did she tell you she was
coming?"
"No," said Anne, "but when she comes, you will take my hand, and say,
'Mamma, this is my friend;' will you not, and introduce me to her?"
The child looked brightly up:
"Eh, Lilie will be blythe! blythe!--but if mamma were coming, what would
Lilie call you?"
"You would call me aunt," said Anne, her eyes filling as she looked upon
the little face lying on her knee. "Your Aunt Anne that found you out,
when you came a little stranger to the Mill."
Lilie rose to wind her small arms round Anne's neck.
"But you're no Lilie's aunt--I wish you were Lilie's aunt--then you
would take me to live at Merkland."
"Would you like to live at Merkland, Lilie?"
"Whiles," said the child; "no in bonnie days like this, but
whiles--Jacky says I'm a lady--am I a lady?"
"Not till you are old, like me; you will be a lady then."
"But Jacky says I'm a _young_ lady," reiterated Lilie; "does Jacky no
ken?"
"We will ask mamma when she comes," said Anne.
The little face became radiant:
"Eh! when mamma comes!--will you be glad too, like Lilie?--and will they
a' be there? Papa and Lawrie? What way do you put your head down? then
your eyelashes come upon your cheek, and then you grow like--"
"Like whom, Lilie?"
"My papa. If mamma comes, will they a' come--papa and Lawrie?"
"Who is Lawrie, Lilie?" The name was a still further corroboration;
there was something touching in the exile calling his son by his
father's name.
"Lilie's brother. He is near as tall as you, and he's like papa."
"And you think I am like papa," said Anne, tremulously.
"Whiles, when you hold down your head, and look sad."
"Does papa look sad?"
"No," said Lilie, "but when you look as if you would greet, then you
grow like him; and Lawrie never greets, and yet he's like him, too. What
way is that?"
"And do they call you Miss Lilie at home?" said Anne, at once to evade
the difficult question submitted to her, and to ascertain something of
the worldly comforts of her banished brother. Mrs. Melder's guess was no
doubt correct: the box which had been sent to Lilie could come from no
_poor_ house.
"No papa, or mamma, or Lawrie, but the maids and English John, and
Jose--for papa's no like Robert Melder; he's a rich gentleman."
"And why did they send you here?" exclaimed Anne, more as expressing her
own astonishment, than addressing the child.
"Lilie was very ill--had to lie in her bed--mamma thought I would die,
and it was to get strong again. See," Lilie disengaged herself from
Anne, and ran away along the bank of the Oran, returning ruddy and
breathless, "Lilie's strong now."
"And why did you not tell me this before?" said Anne.
"Lilie didna mind--Lilie didna ken how to speak;" and the child looked
confused and bewildered. By means of her broken sentences, however, Anne
made out that Lilie had been brought home by a Juana, a Spanish nurse,
and had been accustomed to hear the servants in her father's house speak
the liquid foreign tongue, which she was already beginning to forget.
That being suddenly brought into the rustic Scottish dwelling, and
seeing, with the quick perception of a child, that its inhabitants were
of the same rank as her former attendants, the child had naturally
fancied that their language must also be, not the cultivated English,
the speaking of which was an accomplishment, but the more ornate tongue
which she had been accustomed to hear among their equals in her own
country. Then Mrs. Melder's dialect still further puzzled the lonely
child, who, under the care of Juana, had spoken nothing but Spanish
during the voyage, which she thought so long a one, so that the ideas of
the little head became quite perplexed and ravelled; and it was not
until she had mastered in a considerable degree this new Scottish
tongue, that the more refined words learned from "mamma" began to steal
once more into her childish memory.
But Anne's attempted questioning, respecting the person who brought
Lilie to the Mill, produced no satisfactory answer. The remembrance had
become hazy already; and save for a general impression of
discomfort--one of those vague indefinite times of childish suffering
and unhappiness, which are by no means either light or trivial,
howsoever we may think of them, when we are involved in more mature
calamities, Lilie's memory failed her. She could give no account of the
interim, between her voyage under the government of Juana, and her
transference to the rule of Mrs. Melder.
To Mrs. Catherine, Anne had said little of the Lilies--to Lewis nothing.
Their connexion with Norman had nothing to do with the proof of his
innocence, and though Christian Lilie's strange words had occupied her
own mind night and day since she heard them, she yet did not think it
either necessary or prudent to make them a matter of conversation.
Again, she remained in so much doubt about this singular brother and
sister--their strange seclusion, and grief, and inactivity--their
mysterious and abrupt removal, which evidently was to avoid meeting her,
perplexed herself so much that she did not venture to confide even in
Mrs. Catherine. She brooded over her secret by herself; she slept
little--rested little--took long, solitary, meditative walks, and much
exercise, and felt herself more than ever abstracted from the busy
little world about her. She was becoming a solitary, cheerless woman,
cherishing in silent sadness one great hope; a hope with which strangers
might not intermeddle--which was foolishness to her own nearest
friends--which might never be realized upon this earth--nevertheless a
hope in which her whole nature was concentrated--the very essence and
aim of her being.
She did not even reveal to Mrs. Catherine her suspicion her hope, that
Lilie was the child of her banished brother. She cherished it in her own
mind as a secret strength and comfort. She endeavored in all gentle ways
to supply the want of the mother after whom the little heart yearned,
and she was successful. Lilie began to call her aunt--to watch in
childish anxiety for her daily visits--to wander about anywhere,
unwearied and joyous, so long as Anne was leading her, and to look to
her at all times as her dearest friend and protector. Then these
childish confidences--these snatches, of dear remembrance of the
far-away mamma--these glances into the household of the exile! Anne drew
new invigoration, strength, and hope from these, in the darkest time of
her depression.
Yet all endeavors for her great end were stayed--no one lifted a hand in
the cause of the injured man--no one made any exertion to deliver him.
In the bright sunshine of that leafy month of June her heart sickened
within her. She longed to return again to the place where something
might be done, where with a prospect of success, or without it, she
might still labor; she might still engage in the search.
In the meantime, everything went on peaceably in the parish of
Strathoran. Jeanie Coulter and Walter Foreman had made up their mind,
and were speedily to be married. Ada Mina, in the glory of being
bridesmaid and bride's sister, had almost forgotten Giles Sympelton.
Marjory Falconer was very remarkably quiet; she was "beginning to
settle." Mrs. Bairnsfather said, maliciously, "and it was high time."
Mr. Ferguson's work was advancing in the bleak lands of Lochend and
Loelyin. Mr. Coulter and he were very busy, and in high spirits. Lord
Gillravidge had left Strathoran. The fair country, in the height of its
summer beauty, had no attractions for Lord Gillravidge. There was no
game to slaughter, and other kind of excitement, the quiet Norland
parish had never possessed any.
Mr. Fitzherbert was left behind; he was now lord paramount at
Strathoran, and a very great man, intensely detested by the Macalpines
of Oranmore, and spoken of with bitter derision and disdain by all the
other inhabitants of Strathoran. He had displeased Lord Gillravidge by
being the occasion of Giles Sympelton's desertion, and was left behind
half as a punishment for that offence, and half as a promotion for
counter-balancing good offices. Mr. Fitzherbert's feelings concerning it
were of the same mixed description. He was immensely bored with the
intolerable weariness of the country, while at the same time he enjoyed
his temporary lordship, and ordered and stormed magnificently in the
desecrated house of the Sutherlands.
We should not have intruded ourselves into his disagreeable presence had
that been all. But Mr. Fitzherbert in his dreariness, when he had
exercised his petty despotism to its full extent--had cursed the
servants, bullied Mr. Whittret, and asserted his predominance in various
other pleasant and edifying ways--was forced to invent further amusement
for himself. Surely, there never was an unhappy individual with small
brains and a craving for excitement more miserably placed.
It chanced one day that Flora Macalpine, Mrs. Ferguson's very pretty and
very bashful nurserymaid, unwarily entered the contested by-way, while
walking with the Woodsmuir children. Mr. Fitzherbert met her there, and
the first harsh sound of his command to leave the road, was very much
less disagreeable than the softening of tone which followed. Mr.
Fitzherbert began to admire the pretty Highland girl, and to venture to
express to her his admiration--to her, a Macalpine! Flora hurried from
the by-way with her charge, in burning shame and indignation.
But Mr. Fitzherbert was not to be got rid of so easily. Flora did not
know the might of _ennui_ which made him seek out her quiet walks, and
waylay her so perseveringly. She avoided him in every possible way; but
still he found means to persecute her with his odious flattery and
attentions. Flora was engaged, moreover, and tall Angus Macalpine, her
handsome bride-groom elect, and Duncan Roy, her brother, were equally
irate, and equally contented to have a decided personal plea for
punishing the obnoxious jackal of Lord Gillravidge. So Flora reluctantly
suffered herself to be made a party in a plan, which should ensnare her
tormentor, and pour out upon him, in full flood, the rage and contempt
of the Macalpines.
It was a beautiful evening in June: Mr. Fitzherbert had just received
from Lord Gillravidge the much wished-for call to London.
In great glee he put the letter in his pocket, took his hat, and sallied
out. His splendid hair, his magnificent whiskers and moustache were in
the most superlative order. Flora Macalpine had intimated to him
bashfully that she would be in the contested by-way, near the
stepping-stones, at seven o'clock; it is always pleasant to be
victorious. Mr. Fitzherbert had no doubt that the power of his
fascinations had smitten the simple cottager, and accordingly in perfect
good-humor with himself, and very much disposed to accept Flora's
homage, with the utmost condescension, he set out for the
stepping-stones.
Close by the trysting place, in the slanting June sunlight, screening
himself with the thick foliage of a "bourtree-bush," stood tall Angus
Macalpine watching for his prey. Flora, nervous and trembling, stood
beside him; she felt she was very much out of place, and did not at all
like her position, but that strong, thickset little brother of hers,
Duncan Roy, was squatting at her feet, concealing the flaming red head,
which might have alarmed their victim, among the surrounding leaves, and
Angus, bending down his handsome head with its curling fair hair, and
healthful, good-looking face, was very carefully supporting her, and
guarding against her running away. So, after all, there was nothing
improper in it, and she could not help herself. The idea of the
compulsion comforted Flora.
Footsteps approached by-and-by. It was not Mr. Fitzherbert. It was
George, the Falcon's Craig groom, and Johnnie Halflin, to whom Duncan
Roy had communicated some hint of his intention. The punishment was far
too just, the fun far too good, for these mischief-loving lads to let it
slip. They had come to assist the Macalpines. George was making horrible
faces. His veins were perfectly swoln with the might of his suppressed
laughter. Johnnie had a little pink pocket-handkerchief--a keepsake from
Bessie--thrust bodily into his capacious mouth. The Macalpines were
graver; a quiet glee was shooting from the eyes of Duncan Roy, and Angus
sometimes smiled--but the smile was an angry one.
"But, Angus," whispered Flora; "mind, you maun promise that you'll no
hurt him?"
"I'll try," was the emphatic response.
"Eh! but Duncan--Angus! Dinna hurt him, for ony sake.--Just fear him, or
I'll rin away this moment."
It was easier said than done. That mighty arm of Angus Macalpine's might
have restrained a man of his own inches without any particular strain.
"We'll no hurt him, Flora," said Duncan encouragingly,--"We'll only
douk him, forbye--Listen! There he is--in behint the bush, lads. Angus,
let Flora go."
It was indeed Fitzherbert. They could hear his swaggering step as he
advanced, whistling gaily.
"I'll whistle ye!" exclaimed the angry Angus, in a strong undertone. "If
ye were ance in my hands, my lad, ye'll whistle or ye get out again!"
Flora had only time to speak another earnest remonstrance, when her
admirer appeared.
The ambush had been skilfully contrived. The unsuspected Fitzherbert
advanced gaily. Poor Flora trembled and shrank back--the instinctive
delicacy of her simple womanly nature overpowering her with shame. To
meet this odious man at all, if it were but for a second, was a disgrace
to her, even though Angus and Duncan were waiting at her side.
Mr. Fitzherbert began a gallant speech--he attempted to take Flora's
hand. The girl shrank back to the shelter of the bourtree-bush--and in
another moment, Fitzherbert was struggling in the stalwart arms of Angus
Macalpine--an embrace as unexpected as it was overpowering.
"Haud the ill tongue of ye!" exclaimed Duncan Roy, as he seized the
struggling legs of the unhappy adventurer, and held him fast. "If ye say
another word, ye shall rue it a' your days."
"Do you want to rob me?" cried Fitzherbert. "I haven't my purse on me,
good fellows. Let me go, or you shall suffer for it."
"Rob ye!" Tall Angus Macalpine seized his collar with an exclamation of
disgust, and shook him violently. "Rob ye! Ye pitiful animal, wha would
file their fingers with your filthy siller! Duncan, give me the plaid."
The other two auxiliaries were standing by expending their pent-up
laughter, Johnnie Halflin bestirred himself now, to hand to Angus one of
the plaids that lay on the grass beside him.
Threats, entreaties, vociferation, rage, all were in vain. The plaid was
bound tightly round the unhappy Fitzherbert, strapping his arms to his
side. Then Duncan confined in like manner his struggling feet. Then they
laid him down on the grass.
"Hushaba!" sung Johnnie Halflin as, with laughter not to be suppressed,
they viewed the ludicrous bondage of their foe. "Eh, man, ye're a muckle
baby to lie there, and do naething but squeal."
"What gars ye no fight wi' your neives, like a man?" cried George.
"Do you no see? He's putting a' his strength into the feet of him. See,
woman Flora, he's walopping like the fishes in the Portoran boats when
they're new catched. _He's_ new catched, too. Gie him a taste o' the
water."
"If ye had dune what ye had to do against us, like a man," said Angus
Macalpine, solemnly, addressing the miserable captive, who lay prone
before these shafts of rustic wit, upon the grass at their feet, "we
might have throoshen ye like a man, and gi'en ye fair play; but because
ye're a vermin that have creeped in to quiet places, where there was nae
man to chastise ye--and because ye have tried to breathe your ill breath
into the purest heart in a' Strathoran, ye shall hae only a vermin's
punishment. Duncan, ye can get your shears. I'll haud the sheep."
Duncan advanced in grim mirth, holding a pair of mighty shears. Angus
knelt down upon the grass, and held Fitzherbert with his arm. The
operation commenced. The punishment was the bitterest they could have
chosen. Duncan Roy squatting at his side, with methodic composure and
malicious glee, began to clip, and cut away, in jagged and uneven bits,
his cherished whiskers, his beautiful moustache, his magnificent hair.
The victim roared and groaned, entreated and threatened, in vain--the
relentless operators proceeded in their work--the scissors entered into
his soul.
A light, quick step came suddenly along the path. They did not hear it,
so overwhelming was the laughter of the lookers-on, till Marjory
Falconer stood in the midst of them. Duncan's scissors suddenly ceased.
The victim looked up in momentary hope, and again shrank back
despairing. He by no means desired to throw himself upon the tender
mercies of Miss Falconer.
"What is the matter?" cried Marjory. "Flora, are you here! What is the
matter? what are they about?"
"Oh! Miss Falconer," exclaimed Flora who, between shame and laughter,
was now in tears, "it's the gentleman from Strathoran--and it's Duncan
and Angus--and he wouldna let me be, and they're--"
An involuntary burst of laughter choked Flora's penitence.--The lifted
head of her brother, with its look of comic appeal, as he held up his
shears before Miss Falconer, and silently asked her permission to
proceed--the grim steadfastness with which Angus continued to hold the
victim on the grass--the vain attempt of Miss Falconer to look gravely
displeased and dignified--the fierce struggles of Fitzherbert--Flora
could not bear it: she ran in behind the bourtree-bush.
Marjory stood undecided for a moment. She had great influence with the
Macalpines and their class, as a strong and firm character always has.
She thought for an instant of what people would say, almost for the
first time in her life. Then she looked at the ludicrous scene before
her--the just punishment of poor Flora's persecution. The prudent
resolution faded away--she yielded to the fun and to the justice. She
could not put her veto upon it.
"George, do you go home--you are not wanted. Duncan, have you finished?"
"Na," said the rejoicing Duncan, beginning with double zeal to ply his
redoubtable shears. "He's a camstarie beast, this ane--he tak's lang
shearing--but we're winning on, Mem."
George reluctantly turned away. His mistress's orders were not to be
trifled with, he knew. Little Bessie's pink handkerchief was in Johnnie
Halflin's mouth again. Flora remained behind the bourtree-bush,
terrified to look upon her tormentor's agonized face. Marjory Falconer
looked on.
The blood was rushing in torrents to her hot cheeks already.--She could
have put an end to this if she would: instead of that she had encouraged
it. She had yielded to the mirthful impulse: now she was paying the
penalty in one of her overpowering agonies of shame.
"Now--now!" she exclaimed, as Duncan, with methodic accuracy, finished
his operation on one side of Mr. Fitzherbert's fiery countenance, "that
will do now--let him go."
The operators looked up in disappointment.
"Do let him go; let me see him released before I leave you."
Duncan and Angus looked at each other.
"Weel," said Angus, smiling grimly, "he's gey weel; ye'll think again,
my lad, before ye offer to lay your filthy fingers on a Macalpine, or
ony ither lass in the countryside. Now, Duncan--"
They began to free him from his bondage. Angus took one end of the plaid
which confined his arms--Duncan the other. The process was satisfactory,
but by no means gentle; over and over they rolled him, and when the
hapless Fitzherbert found himself at last at liberty, he was lying
within the green verge of the Oran--the soft waters embracing him. His
first struggle threw him further in; and when he rose at last,
spluttering with wrath and water, his clothes wet, his face scarred with
the pebbles, and shorn of its hirsute glories--all his tormentors were
gone. Light of foot, and conversant with all the by-ways, they had
dispersed, considerably against the will of the Macalpines, but in
obedience to the command of Miss Falconer, and the entreaties of Flora.
In burning rage and mortification Mr. Fitzherbert stalked back to
Strathoran. In the distance, upon the other side of the river, he could
see the retreat of the Macalpines; it was a fruitless thing vowing
vengeance upon them. He had done his worst; they were out of his power.
But Mr. Fitzherbert's mortification and rage reached a climax when he
looked upon his sad mutilation--cruel as Hanun the son of Nahash, and
his artful counsellors of the children of Ammon, the scissors of the
remorseless Duncan had swept away one entire half of Mr. Fitzherbert's
adornments. It must all go, cherished and dearly beloved as it was--the
flowing luxuriance of the one side must be sacrificed to the barbarous
stubble of the other.--Alas the day! How should he meet Lord
Gillravidge! how account for the holocaust! Mr. Fitzherbert was fitly
punished--he was in despair.
Marjory Falconer hurried along the road to Merkland, little less
despairing than Mr. Fitzherbert. She was bitterly ashamed; her face was
burning with passionate blushes. She needed no one to remind her of her
loss of dignity; the strong and powerful vitality of her womanhood
avenged itself completely. Like Jeanie Coulter, or Alice Aytoun, or even
Anne Ross herself, she knew Marjory Falconer could never be!--nor like
the cheerful active sister Martha of the Portoran Manse. Marjory did not
blush more deeply when that last name glided into her memory; that was
impossible--no human verdict, or condemnation would have abashed her so
entirely as did her own strong, clear, unhesitating judgment; but she
looked uncomfortable and uneasy. Another person now might be involved in
the blame of her misdoings; the reflected shadow of those extravagancies
might fall upon one, of whom many tongues were sufficiently ready to
speak evil. It did not increase the scorching passion of her shame--but
it deepened her repentance.
"Is Miss Ross in, Duncan?" she asked as she entered Merkland.
"Ou ay, Miss Falconer, Miss Anne's in," said Duncan, preceding her
leisurely to Mrs. Ross's parlor. "She's in her ain room--according to
her ain fashion. There's nae accounting for the whigmaleeries of you
leddies, but an she disna live liker a human creature and less like a
bird, ye may tak my word for't she'll no live ony way lang."
"What do you mean?" exclaimed Marjory. "Is Miss Ross ill?"
"Na. I'm no saying she's ill," was the cautious answer; "but taking lang
flights her lane, up the water and down the water, and when she comes in
eating a nip that wadna ser a lintie, and syne away up the stair to
pingle her lane at a seam; I say it's a clear tempting o' Providence,
Miss Falconer, and I have tell't Miss Anne that mysel."
Marjory ran up stairs, and tapped at the door of Anne's room. "Come in,"
said Anne. Marjory entered.
The window was open--the full glory of the setting sun was pouring over
the beautiful country, lying like a veil of golden tissue, sobered with
fairy tints of gray and purple upon the far-off solemn hills, and
gleaming in the river as you could trace its course for miles, where its
thick fringe of foliage was parted here and there. Anne leant upon the
window-still, looking out. It was not the fair heights and hollows of
her native district that she saw; her eyes were veiled to these. The dim
shores of the Forth in the still evening-time--the long, low, sighing of
the waters--the desolate, gloomy house behind--the tall, gaunt figure
stealing shadowlike over the glistening sand--these were before her
constantly, in dream and vision, shutting out with their gray tints and
sad colouring all other landscapes, how fair soever they might be.
She did not look up when Marjory entered, but waited to be addressed,
thinking it May or Barbara. At last, finding the new-comer did not
speak, she turned round.
"Marjory, is that you?"
"What are you thinking of, Anne?" said Marjory. "What makes you dream
and brood thus? There you have been gazing out these two minutes, as
fixedly as if you saw something of the greatest interest. I am quite
sure you don't know what you are looking at, and, had I come forward
suddenly, and asked you what river that was, you would have faltered and
deliberated before you could be certain it was the Oran. I know you
would. What is it all about?"
Anne smiled.
"It is not so easy to tell. You put comprehensive questions, Marjory."
"And here are you making yourself ill!" exclaimed Marjory, impetuously;
"dreaming over something which no one is to know; walking alone, and
sitting alone, and defrauding yourself of proper rest and relaxation,
and altogether, as plainly as possible endeavoring to manufacture a
consumption. I say, Anne Ross, what is it all about? I have a right to
know--we all have a right to know; you don't belong to yourself. If you
were not Anne Ross, of Merkland, I should begin to suspect we had some
love-sickness on our hands."
"And if you were any one else but Marjory Falconer, of Falcon's Craig, I
should be very angry," said Anne, smiling.
"Never anything reasonable from you since you came home; never a call
upon any one but Mrs. Melder. Nothing but patient looks, and paleness,
and reveries! I don't see why we should submit to it, Anne Ross. I
protest, in the name of the parish--it is a public injustice!"
"Very well, Marjory," said Anne. "Pray be so good as sit down now, and
do not scold so bitterly. Did you come all the way from Falcon's Craig
for the sole purpose of bringing me under discipline?"
Marjory Falconer put up her hands to her cheeks to hide the vehement
blushes which rushed back again; then, as she recalled the story she had
come to tell, its ludicrous points overcame the shame, and she laughed
with characteristic heartiness. There was not, after all, so very much
to be ashamed of; but, as everybody exaggerated the extravagance of
everything done by Marjory Falconer, so Marjory Falconer felt herself
bitterly humiliated in the recollection of _escapades_ which young
ladies of much greater pretensions would only have laughed at.
"What is it, Marjory?" said Anne.
The fit of shame returned.
"Oh! not much. Only I have been making a fool of myself again."
Anne expressed no wonder; she only drew her friend into a chair, and
asked:
"How?"
"I am going to tell you. I came here at once, you see, lest some one
else should be before me with the news. Ah! and there you sit as cool
and calm as though I were not entering my purgatory!"
"I don't want to tease you further," said Anne, "or I should say that
when people make purgatories for themselves, it behoves them to endure
patiently."
"Very well: you don't intend to be sympathetic. I am quite satisfied.
Now for my confession. Most unwittingly and innocently, I premise, was I
led into the snare. Anne Ross! turn away from the window, and keep your
glances within proper bounds. If your eyes wander so, I shall forget my
own foolishness in yours--and I don't choose that."
Anne obeyed, and Marjory told her story--sometimes overwhelmed with her
own passionate humiliation, sometimes bursting into irrepressible mirth.
It was very soon told. Anne looked annoyed and vexed. She did not speak.
It was the sorest condemnation she could have given.
"You have nothing to say to me!" exclaimed Marjory, the hot flood
burning over her cheek, and neck, and forehead. "You think I am clearly
hopeless now. You think--"
"I think," said Anne, "that Marjory Falconer, whom malicious people
blame for pride, is not half proud enough."
"Not proud enough!"
It was difficult to believe, indeed, when one saw the drawing-up of her
tall, fine figure, and the flashing of her eye.
"Yes, I understand. You would be proud enough were you Ralph; then, for
everything brave, and honorable, and true, the fame of the Falconers
would be safe in your hands: but you are not proud enough, being
Marjory. I fancy we should inhabit a loftier atmosphere than these
boyish frolics could find breath in, Marjory; an atmosphere too pure and
rare to carry clamorous voices, whatever may be their burden."
"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.'"
"Anne!"
"I am quite serious. There are few amongst us who are ruled more than we
need to be, Marjory. The best mind will always assert itself, in
whomsoever it may dwell--we are safe in that.--The weak ought to be
controlled and guided, and will be, wherever there is a stronger,
whether man or woman."
"Strange doctrines, these!" said Marjory Falconer. "I acknowledge myself
outdone. I give up my poor little innovations. Why, Anne Ross, what
would the proper people say? What would the Coulters--the Fergusons--the
whole parish?"
"Perfectly agree with me," said Anne, "when it had time to think about
it, without being shocked in the least. The proper people. You forget
that I am a very proper person myself."
"So I did," said Marjory Falconer, shrugging her shoulders, "so I did.
Patronised by Mrs. Bairnsfather, highly approved by Mrs. Coulter and
Mrs. Ferguson--I almost thought, just now, that you were as improper as
myself."