soon, and papa went with her, and, after something less than a fortnight’s absence, he returned alone. We did not see so much of Mr. Pembroke at this time. He had not named to papa his reason for wishing to resign the curacy, and we were in doubt whether it might be he considered the stipend inadequate to his merits, or that the latter were shining under a bushel, in such a wild out-of-the-world place as our village. Suddenly a strange rumour ran like wild-fire over the moor. Mr. Pembroke was going to be married to Miss Arabella Green! It was in everybody’s mouth, but we refused to believe it. Mrs. Shipton declared she had all along guessed what would happen; this being, from time immemorial, the observation with which she greeted every piece of news that surprised her ears. The idea of her being mistaken! Was he not her lodger, and did she not know everything about him just as if he were her son? Not that he could have been her son, though, she wasn’t quite old enough for that. She was, indeed, several years younger than the lady he was going to marry. She remembered Miss Arabella Green a grown-up young lady when she, Mary Podger, was quite a child—years before she had ever seen poor dear departed John Shipton—bless his soul!—to whom she was married when she was only nineteen. And, for her part, she thought the young gentleman was going to throw himself away—such a fine handsome young gentleman as he was. Then, there was Miss Arabella Green’s cook’s tale to our cook. Of course there was going to be a wedding. As if anybody had a better right to know than she. And she thought her lady, with all her money, might have looked higher than a curate, though, to be sure, he was a handsome young man, and, no doubt, Miss Arabella could buy him a bishopric directly, if she liked. In spite, however, of Mrs. Shipton’s tale, and Miss Arabella Green’s cook’s tale, and the tale of the butcher’s wife, who lived just opposite the big, staring, red-faced house, and had seen the Curate go into it I forget how many times a-day—but it was a number that “must mean something:” in spite of these and tales too numerous to mention—our population the preceding Census was 395, and of these every man, woman, and child beyond the age of babyhood, had his or her story to tell about the wedding that was to be: in spite of them all we were still incredulous, only resolving to tease Mr. Pembroke about them the next time we saw him. But before this time came papa received a letter which must be transcribed. It was addressed in an unknown and somewhat illiterate handwriting, bore the postmark of a small town in the west of England, and its contents were as follows:
Reverund Sir,—This coms hopin you will not take it amis seein as how the Feelins of a parint must be sakrid in the heyes of one whose duty it is to inforse the Fifth Comandment from the halter ivry Sunday sir my Name his Pembroke and i ham the Father the unhapy Father of my ungratefull son your curate sir i hope you will Pardon me for trubblin of you with sum Partiklers of my own history my brother and i were hurly left horphans with no fortin beyond the Superor hedication of wich your reverence now as a speciment your Reverence knows as how we receeve not allays the just recompens of our doins in this warld my brother he grows Rich but your humble sarvent he tried the Sea he tried ivry honest callin on land but ivrythink went agin him sir does not the Bibel say sumthink aboot the Stars in there corses a fightin agin a Body well sir sure they did agin your humble sarvent and no Fault of his’n my brother sir he maried a rich leddy and had no childer while my wife of poor but honest parints had Five as fine childern as iver the Sun shined on two on ’em lads and wen my brother seed em he covetted em forby the Comandment says thou shalt not covet so seein as how he wur rich and we had scarce Bread to eat i let him take John George him as is now your Curate to bring up has his own Son and sur he was Brought up to be a fine Gintleman and despise his poor ould Father and Mother that bore him to whom he has niver sent a Penny and who lives now to be a Burden on his brother who is a rispectabel Grocer in this Town and who would niver have let me rite this here letter to you sir if he knowed it but sir he has a Wife and Family of his own to support and hearin as how my son your Curate is goin to Marry a grand Rich lady i thought praps your Reverence might kindly get him to settel a small anuity upon his mother and me to make us Comfortabel and independant in our ould Age sur it is our wish to disgrace Nobody and our Son need not Fear we shall iver put ourselves in the way of his Rich Wife whose Face we hear is not so bony that Folks might long to see It Sir i should not have trubbled your Reverence with this long letter but i can get no anser to those i have writ to my son your Curate axin your Pardon again Sir i am
Your reverence’s humble Sarvent to Comand
Your reverence’s humblJohn William Pembroke.
