better than I am. Like Helena’s should be my song:—
That I should love a bIt were all one
That I should love a bright particular star,
And think to wed it, he is so above me.
“My dear Fanny, if you go off into a rhapsody, it is no use talking to you.”
“True, Sarah dear, I beg your pardon, and promise not to rhapsodise any more. So tell me your whole plan. Do you mean to send a sermon to Mr. Pembroke every week, under your own sign manual?”
“No indeed, of course neither he nor anybody must ever know I have anything to do with it. I should not even have told you, only I want you to promise to walk with me once a week to B, where the manuscript must be posted. I am sure I have disguised the handwriting beyond all possibility of recognition.”
This I admitted, but objected that Mr. Pembroke would naturally suppose it was one of his own congregation who thus favoured him, for what could it matter to any of the parishioners of B whether he fed his flock on a dry crust, or on the choicest and richest of viands? And, among his own congregation, upon whom could suspicion fall save upon one of the parson’s daughters?
But Sarah, wiser than I, reminded me that Mr. Pembroke was personally known to more than one of the families resident at B, that to know him was to love him (?), and that although it might matter nothing to these individuals what manner of sermons were preached in our village church, it possibly mattered everything that the preacher should remain in their neighbourhood. They had heard of papa’s discontent, and the sermons were sent as a means towards the end of preventing his dismissing his curate. Or even should Mr. Pembroke’s suspicion rest on one of his own parishioners, had I forgotten Miss Arabella Green? Had she not the pen of a ready writer? and what more likely than that she should employ it in the curate’s service? Did she not ask him to dinner, and patronise him, and smile upon him—a hideous smile, truly, but meant as a sign of grace and favour? Had she not sought to gain a husband once by feeding his hungry and clothing his naked, and might she not be seeking to gain one now by writing his sermons? She was old enough to be his mother, I was going to say; true—but did elderly maiden ladies never pay court to young single gentlemen, men young enough to be their sons? It was absurd, but was anything too absurd for Miss Arabella Green? I was obliged to grant all these arguments of Sarah’s, to grant that she might succeed in preserving her incognito.
“But,” was my next objection, “Mr. Pembroke will never make use of your sermons. Depend upon it, he thinks no small things of his own compositions, his manner of delivering them proclaims it unmistakeably. His form being the happy medium between the Apollo Belvidere and the Farnese Hercules, his style of writing doubtless combines Bishop Butler’s powers of reasoning with the eloquence of—whom shall I say?”
“Ah, Fanny, you have always done him injustice. I know papa has told him more than once that he is not satisfied with his sermons. Besides, if he doesn’t make use of the first I send, of course I shall not try a second time. But you will read this one, and tell me what you think of it. I should like to make an experiment of my plan for once.”
“Very well: but you don’t wish me to keep it a secret from Rose? She has gone out to finish a sketch on the moor, and I was just getting ready to join her there, when you came in. She asked me to bring a book to read to her, and if you will allow me, I will take this sermon of yours instead, and when we come in you shall be favoured with our united judgment of its merits.”
Having gained the desired permission, I sallied forth, and soon reached the spot where my youngest sister was seated, with her colour-box beside her, intent on the painting she had in hand.
It was now October; the heather had put off its purple robe and donned the sad and sober brown, but it was a lovely day, and the unclouded sun, with its countless lights and shadows, made objects and colours, inanimate and faded in themselves, dance with life and brilliancy. Rose’s pencil had been true to nature, and had succeeded in sketching an effective picture. I told her Sarah’s project, which surprised her as much as it had done me, and then I proceeded to read the manuscript aloud. We were doubtless partial and incapable critics, for to us it seemed a masterpiece; it was, however, indisputably superior to any effort of Mr. Pembroke’s, and we thought even his vanity must acknowledge it.
“He is not worthy of her,” exclaimed Rose. “If the light-haired brother proves half so stupid, or a quarter so vain, I will have nothing to say to him, though I should see his image reflected in all the crystals in the world, in the very rain-drops as they fall, even though he should profess to love me with an immeasurable love, which last even is sadly wanting in Sarah’s case.”
“Ah! I had forgotten all about the light-haired brother. Do you mean to say you have discovered he really exists? Mr. Pembroke always appeared so very unwilling to speak of his family. I remember the first day he dined with us, when in answer to papa’s question, he said his father was not a clergyman, his confused and hesitating manner gave me the impression that he (the father, I mean) must be a felon, or something of the sort.”
“Well, the light-haired brother may be a galley-slave, for anything I know to the contrary. My discovery goes not beyond the bare fact of his existence. One day, however, Mr. Pembroke casually mentioned this brother by name. I ventured to ask if he resembled him, and he replied, some people thought so, but the colour of the eyes and hair was different. Now, our Mr. Pembroke’s hair is dark, so it follows the other’s must be light.”
“No, it may be red.”
“In that case, too, I shall have nothing to say to him,” replied Rose, laughing; and her sketch being now finished, we returned to the house, and told Sarah we agreed to conceal and abet her proceeding—agreed to be subscribers to the Curate’s Aid Society.
The following Friday, Rose and she walked