So I reckon, if the same always be, I must be content, and not trouble me touching Father’s and Mother’s knowing. But I do marvel if Father and Mother did the like their own selves, for I know they married o’ love. Howbeit, Mother had none elders then living, nor Father neither, now I come to think thereon: wherefore with them ’twas other matter.
Sithence I writ that last, come Alice and Blanche Lewthwaite, and their Robin, to four-hours: and mighty strange it is how folk be for ever a-saying things as though they wist what I were a-thinking. Here Blanche saith to Nell, that she would account that no jolly wedding where her elders had ordered all for her, but would fain choose for herself.
“I would likewise fain have my choice go along therewith,” saith Nell, “and so, doubtless, would every maid: nor do I think that any father and mother should desire otherwise. But thou signifiest not, surely, Blanche, that thou shouldst love to order the whole matter thine own self, apart from thine elders’ pleasure altogether?”
“Ay, but I would,” saith she: “it should have a deal better zest.”
“It should have a deal less honesty!” saith Nell with some heat—heat, that is, for Nell.
“Honesty!” quoth Blanche: “soft you now (gently),—what dishonesty should be therein?”
“Nay, Blanche, measure such dealing thyself by God’s ell-wand of the Fifth Commandment, and judge if it were honouring thine elders as He bid thee.”
“I do vow, Nell, thou art a Puritan!”
“By the which I know not what thou meanest,” saith Nell, as cool as a marble image.
“Why, ’tis a new word of late come up,” quoth Blanche. “They do call all sad, precise, humdrum folk, Puritans.”