curiosity as to what our lovers should personally be like; and when we chanced to hear that in the town nearest to us there lived an old woman who showed to people through a glass the forms of the future rulers of their destiny, we determined to pay her a secret visit. Papa must not know anything about it, nor anybody in the world except Mary, the old servant, who had told us the story—she would go with us. It was a long way, more than six miles off, that little town of B, and the sun was scorchingly hot as we crossed the wild unsheltered moor that summer afternoon; but our feet did not tire nor our spirits flag. We reached the old woman at last; very old she looked—nearly a hundred to our eyes—and her antique dress and hollow sepulchral tones exactly embodied our imaginations of the Sibyl. The magic mirror, an ordinary prism to all appearance, was produced, and Sarah invited to look steadily into it. Wonderful to relate, she declared she beheld a gentleman whom she had never seen before, very tall, very long in the back, small enough in the waist to hint a suspicion of stays, having the tiniest darlings of feet and of hands, jet black hair and whiskers, and a profile exactly in accordance with that of a Greek statue. Encouraged by what I heard of this delightful apparition, I now took the crystal from Sarah’s hand, but alas! look as long and earnestly as I would, it reflected nothing for my eyes but the colours of the rainbow, a phenomenon belonging, as I thought, rather to the science of optics than to that of magic. Vainly I asked the Sibyl whether she portended an early death for me, or—fate yet more cruelly unkind—life as an old maid, from this vacuity of vision: she did but shake her head, a shake big, doubtless, with significance as Lord Burleigh’s, only the wisdom that should interpret it failed me. Thus was my fate left undecided, and Rose essayed her turn. Her description resembled Sarah’s so exactly, that I settled it my sisters must be the destined brides of two brothers, probably twins—the statuesque profile, tall figure, small waist, delicate hands and feet, all presented themselves a second time, only Rose’s Adonis had light hair instead of dark, and no whiskers at all.
More than two years passed away without bringing anyone to our village in the least degree like the phantoms of the mirror, and our village was our world, having never any of us travelled further from it than that little town of B I have mentioned before, in all our lives. Sarah was now twenty-one, I a year and a half younger, and Rose just eighteen. One day papa—but I must pause a moment first to describe what sort of man our father was. In person he was indisputably handsome, and mentally as indisputably clever. I don’t know whether it was from choice or from the necessity of the case during those more than twenty years he had held the living of on the Moor, but he saw scarcely any society at home, and never went out. His income was small, by the way, and did not justify his keeping a carriage. He occupied himself chiefly with literary pursuits, had contributed, as we knew, articles to several of the reviews, and at the present time we imagined him to be engaged on some greater work, though he had never spoken of it to us. Now I can return to my “one day.” One day, then, papa took us all by surprise by announcing that he was going to keep a curate. The parish was very small—the emolumen, as I have said before, also small—there was but one full service on Sunday, and very little occasional duty—a few babies were born and wanted baptising, it was true—but a burial was rare, and a wedding almost unheard of—what could papa want with a curate?
“I may tell you,” he said, in answer to our inquiry, which was looked though not spoken, “that I am writing a work—a great work,” he added rather pompously—“one which, I trust, will be acknowledged as such by future generations, and which I would fain, therefore, finish before I die. For this purpose, I have resolved to devote myself entirely to my literary labours, and have engaged as curate a young man who will take the whole of the parish-work off my hands. As I give him a title, he is satisfied with a small stipend. his name is Pembroke, and I expect him immediately after the Easter ordination. He will lodge at Mrs. Shipton’s.”
This information being vouchsafed us about the middle of Lent, we had full employment for the remaining two or three weeks in talking over the great prospective event; not the fate of kingdoms to the statesman, nor that of universal science to the philosopher, could be bigger with interest than was the advent of this curate to us three country girls. Sarah and Rose had each the hope of discovering her crystalline hero—or hero of the crystal I should, perhaps, rather say—and, though my interest was not so personal, it was none the less keen in my sisters’ behalf.
“I am afraid he won’t be comfortable at Mrs. Shipton’s,” said Sarah, “the rooms are so small and the furniture so mean. Don’t you think we might send a few pictures to cover the walls?”
“Or rather the paper that is upon the walls,” suggested Rose. “Those dreadful blue roses with the scarlet leaves. Of course we might. And I am sure we could spare one of the couches from our own morning-room, and—”
“You need not dispose of any more articles of our furniture in your fancy, Rose,” I interrupted; “we might spare, indeed, but we could never send them. Mrs. Shipton thinks her rooms fit for a prince, and would be mortally offended if we insinuated they were not fit for a curate, to reckon nothing of what the curate himself and papa would say and think when they discovered, which, of course, they would do, that we had carried out your plan.”
My arguments were not to be gainsayed, so Mrs. Shipton’s wonderful blue roses suffered no eclipse, and her hard-seated horsehair chairs admitted no dangerous rival in their midst in the shape of our more luxurious sofa.
Easter Sunday came at last, and the Thursday after came Mr. Pembroke. The next day he called at the parsonage, and, after being for some time closeted with papa, was conducted by the latter to the drawing-room, to be introduced to his daughters three. We heard, with beating hearts, their footsteps approaching. The door opened.
