“Oh, I took it for granted——” began Esther, when Fanny broke in upon her.
“Yes, I know what all the happily wedded ones take for granted,” she cried. “You assume that the wedded life is the only one worth living; but as we are told in the Bible that there is one glory of the sun and another of the moon, so I hold that I am justified in believing that if matrimony be celestial, spinsterhood is terrestrial, but a glory all the same, and not unattractive to me. I may be wise enough to content myself with the subdued charm of moonlight if it so be that I am shut off from the midday splendour of matrimony.”
Esther did not laugh in the least as did her sister when she had spoken with an air of finality. She only made a little motion with her shoulders suggesting a shrug, while she said:
“I hope you will succeed in convincing mother that your views are the best for the household; but I think you will have some difficulty in doing so, considering what a family of girls we are.”
“I do not doubt that mother will be on the side of immediate matrimony and poor Mr. Barlowe,” said Fanny.
“Why poor Mr. Barlowe?” cried Esther. “He is a young man of excellent principles, and he has never given his parents a day's trouble. It is understood that if he marries sensibly he will be admitted to a partnership in the business, so that——”
“Principles and a partnership make for matrimonial happiness, I doubt not,” said Fanny. “And I doubt not that Dr. Fell had both excellent principles and an excellent practice; still someone has recorded in deathless verse that she—I assume the sex—did not like that excellent man.”
“And you do not like Mr. Barlowe on the same mysterious grounds?” said Hetty.
“Nay, I am not so unreasonable, I hope,” replied Fanny. “But—but—dear sister, I remember how I thought that the song of the linnet which was in our little garden at Lynn was the loveliest strain of the grove, and such was my belief until I awoke one night at Chessington and heard the nightingale.”
“You are puzzling—singularly puzzling today,” said Esther frowning. “You have started two or three mystifying parables already. You told me some time ago as a great secret that you had been renewing your story-writing, in spite of your having burnt all that you had written for our edification—all that story—what was its name? The heroine was one Caroline Evelyn. You were ever an obedient child, or you would not have sacrificed your offspring at the bidding of our new mother, though the advice that she gave you was good, if you have not quite adhered to it. Novel writing is not for young ladies any more than novel reading, and certainly talking in parables is worse still. Well, I have no more time to spend over your puzzles.”