>. 
 
 o 
 
 c 
 
 
 MEG. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 MEG. 
 
 BY 
 
 MRS. EILOART. 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 THE CURATE'S DISCIPLINE,' 
 
 &c. &c. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON: 
 HUEST AND BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS, 
 
 13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET. 
 
 1868. 
 
 The right of Translation is reserved
 
 LONDON: 
 rUINTKD UV AL<VUl)ONAlJ> AND TUOWEIX, BLENHKIM HOUSK, 
 HLENHKTM 8TRKET, OXFORD STREET
 
 
 CJ) 
 
 
 CO 
 
 
 
 s;0 ^bitfe, 
 
 oo 
 
 IN HER HAPPY GIRLHOOD, 
 
 T-l 
 
 
 > 
 
 THIS 
 
 o 
 
 PICTURE OF A LIFE SO SADLY DIFFERENT, 
 
 
 IS INSCRIBED 
 
 ^>' 
 
 BY 
 
 ^ 
 
 HER MOTHER. 
 
 1>' 
 
 ^ 
 
 \k^ 
 
 ^
 
 M E a. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 MEG. 
 
 TOE was dying. 
 
 ^ Joe was dying. His own mother said 
 so, and so did Meg's. They came in and 
 out, and the former did what she could for 
 him ; but times were hard, and her husband 
 had been earning little lately, so it was not 
 much help she could give Joe, though he 
 had always been her favourite son, and ex- 
 cepting when the drink was on him — " and 
 Where's the man that isn't beside himself 
 now and then? — as good a lad as ever 
 breathed," as she would say. Still it was 
 not much, except in the way of attendance, 
 
 VOL. I. . B
 
 2 MEG. 
 
 and occasional!}^ sitting up at night, she was 
 able to do for her boy. She minded the 
 baby, too, when its wailings disturbed its 
 father, and so did what she could ; but as to 
 Meg's mother, who ever expected anything 
 from her ? Not Meg, certauily — ^not Meg, 
 who a year before had thrown off her mo- 
 ther's control to pass under Joe's, and who 
 now sat dry-eyed and silent, with her sleep- 
 ing baby in her arms, watching him intently, 
 and wondering if it could be true what the 
 two old women had told her. 
 
 Joe to die ! Joe — her Joe ! — her dear, 
 kind, brave, handsome Joe — Joe who had 
 never given her a rough word, or struck 
 her a blow, but when he had taken a little 
 too much — Joe the father of her child, and 
 — no, not her husband ; but the wedding- 
 ring and the priest's blessing were not consi- 
 dered indispensable in Swamp Town, where 
 Meg and Joe were dwelling. They might
 
 MEG. 3 
 
 have lived together to the end of their days 
 without feeling the necessity of either. Joe's 
 mother and father were elderly folks, and 
 well-to-do in their way, but they had always 
 considered themselves sufficiently married 
 without ever having entered a church or a 
 registrar's office for the purpose ; and why 
 should Meg and Joe be more sensitive on 
 such points than their elders ? In truth, 
 they had never thought of it ; and had they 
 done so, it is doubtful whether the elder la- 
 dies, Meg's mother as well as Joe's, would not 
 have scouted the idea as a piece of needless 
 extravagance, and advised the young couple 
 to spend the money in a more sensible man- 
 ner. Banns and the parson's fees ! Why, Joe 
 might buy himself a truck with the money 
 that such superfluities would cost, or Meg be 
 newly dressed from head to foot, in a style 
 that would drive half her companions wild 
 with envy. So Meg sat there looking at 
 
 B 2
 
 4 MEG. 
 
 Joe, with little thought that their union had 
 been one that any would have a right to re- 
 proach either with — even her baby forgot- 
 ten at the time, in the one great paramount 
 thought that Joe was dying. 
 
 Dying ! What did it mean? — ^what could 
 it be? Was Joe — her Joe — to be taken 
 from her, and put into a deep hole under 
 ground ; and was that to be the end of all ? 
 Was she never more to hear his voice, or 
 listen for his footstep ? — ^never more to see 
 him come home tired and footsore, and sit 
 down by the fire, and count his earnings, and 
 tell her what fresh investment he meant to 
 start in on the morrow ? Was she never to 
 stint and contrive, and pinch her own young 
 appetite, that Joe might have plenty, and 
 his supper be savoury and tempting ? Joe 
 to die — Joe to be cold and stiff — a white, 
 stark, ugly thing like others she had seen ? 
 So cold, that to touch him would almost
 
 MEG. 
 
 freeze her blood ! — she had placed her 
 hand once on the dead child of a neighbour, 
 and never forgotten the awful feeling — so 
 deaf, that he would never hear her voice — 
 so mute, that he would never speak her 
 name — so still, that neither hand nor foot 
 could move, — Joe, Joe — her Joe — to be all 
 this, and nothing more ? 
 
 Nothing more. The darkness of utter 
 death was all around her — a thick, black, 
 palpable darkness — and weighed her down 
 with its dread horror. A world beyond 
 for Joe and her to meet in ? Another life 
 for them to share together ? She had not an 
 idea of either one or the other, — this hea- 
 then, who had grown up in the midst of our 
 civilization, and had heard neither of Christ 
 nor of heaven, — of God, but in an oath or a 
 curse. 
 
 It was a small, sparely furnished chamber 
 where Joe was lying, the upper room in 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 6 MEG. 
 
 one of the better houses in Swamp Town ; 
 for Joe had thriven very well in his trade as 
 a costermonger, till he caught the cold 
 which had ended in rheumatic fever ; and 
 Meg had a natural turn for housewifery, 
 and a talent for making the best of their 
 small means. There were a few attempts at 
 adornment — a couple of small plaster figures, 
 bought of an Italian image boy, but mth a 
 grace and beauty in their forms that showed 
 some perception in the purchaser ; two or 
 three cheap coloured engravings that had 
 been issued in various periodicals; and a 
 small bunch of wallflowers on the mantel- 
 piece, in a cheap but pretty vase, which Meg 
 had picked up at a low price, on account of 
 a chip in its brim. 
 
 The trestle bed on which Joe lay was 
 covered with a patchwork quilt, Meg s handi- 
 work. The pieces were gaudy and of irregu- 
 lar form, and not too neatly sewn together.
 
 MEG. 7 
 
 Meg had almost had to teach herself the art 
 of needlework; and her friends, who had 
 contributed the pieces, liked bright colours 
 in their attire, so she had had to make 
 the best she could of the poor materials 
 at her disposal ; but even here there was 
 some choice of colours displayed, and an eye 
 to the general effect, which made this cotton 
 patchwork quilt a different thing altogether 
 from what it would have become under the 
 hands of any other girl in Swamp Town. 
 And under this quilt Joe lay breathing 
 heavily, unconscious of the presence of the 
 girl who sat there with her large eyes fixed 
 on him. His pale wasted face looked the 
 more ghastly yet from its contrast with the 
 bright reds and blues of the quilt ; and the 
 dark matted hair, the hair which Meg had 
 been so proud of, had lost its curl and glos- 
 siness, and lay a tangled mass upon the 
 pillow. There were dark rings round his eyes,
 
 8 INIEG. 
 
 and his clammy lips were half open. The 
 fever had left him, but had destroyed him 
 first. Not yet nineteen, though the father 
 of Meg's child, life had begun and ended 
 early with him, and Joe was now dying 
 from sheer exhaustion. 
 
 His mother had not long left him — she 
 had sat up the previous night, and been 
 busy washing all the day, and after paying 
 Joe a short visit, had gone back home, tell- 
 ing Meg she would be round early in the 
 morning. It would not be over before then. 
 So Meg kept her dreary watch alone — alone, 
 but for the baby, whom Mrs. Blake had of- 
 fered to take away with her ; but she could 
 not bear to part with it. The little one 
 would be very quiet, and even if it were not, 
 Joe was past hearing it. As to her own 
 mother, she had been out all day selling 
 matches, and telling servant-girls their for- 
 tunes, and having come home tired, and a
 
 MEG. 9 
 
 little the worse for a visit to the " Noah's 
 Ark," had contented herself with looking in 
 on Meg, and telling her that Joe was going; 
 another twelve hours, and all would be 
 over. And then she had gone to the little 
 den, ten feet square, which she shared in 
 company with a couple of other itinerant 
 vendors. 
 
 So there Meg sat hushing her baby, and look- 
 ing on Joe by the light of the long unsnufFed 
 tallow candle, and wondering how it could 
 be that Joe, her Joe, was to die. She was 
 not yet seventeen, and beautiful with a 
 beauty rarely seen in such places as Swamp 
 Town. It was a face that would have been 
 a fortune to a tragic actress — ^mobile, express- 
 ive, and finely formed, almost a perfect 
 oval, with a finely-moulded chin, and a 
 broad^ open forehead; a forehead that a 
 phrenologist would have delighted in, as an 
 artist would in, the large, dark wild eyes, the
 
 10 MEG. 
 
 arched eyebrows, the rich red lips, the clear 
 dark skin, with the peach-like bloom upon 
 the cheeks, and the wealth of dark hair that 
 now fell around her in disorder. A face 
 that might have suited either a martyr or a 
 murderess, the face of one capable both of 
 strong endurance and of passion, of loving 
 recklessly and hating madly, of self-sacrifice 
 even unto death, of resentment, or of grati- 
 tude that even death itself could not efface. 
 But it was the last face that one would have 
 thought Swamp Town could have produced. 
 The baby slept on, and Joe lay with no 
 sign of life but his heavy breathmg, and the 
 thick, clammy sweat that now and again broke 
 out on his forehead. After a time Meg 
 laid the little one down in his cradle, and 
 took her place close by Joe, wiping his fore* 
 head at intervals, or moistening his lips. It 
 was all she could do, and it seemed so little 
 — there was the sting of it. To sit there
 
 MEG. n 
 
 helpless and powerless, and to know that the 
 life she prized the most of all was ebbing 
 away before her eyes. 
 
 Hour after hour passed on, and Meg still 
 kept her watch. At last the cold grey light 
 began to break, and Joe opened his eyes 
 and fixed them on her ; then he seemed to 
 try and murmur something, and Meg bent 
 down to catch the words — they were the 
 last Joe ever spoke — " Good-bye, Meg- 
 good-bye !" 
 
 So faint, so indistinct ; and then the eyes 
 fixed themselves in a stiff set glare, and the 
 under-j aw dropped, and Meg shrieked in her 
 despair, as she felt the hand she held in hers 
 stiffen in her grasp. It was well that her 
 cry aroused the baby, well for her that she 
 had something else to do than sit and moan 
 in her despair, well for her that the child's 
 wailings could not be easily appeased, for 
 at last the tears came pouring down like a
 
 f2 
 
 MEG. 
 
 summer storm, and slic found words in 
 which tx) speak the anguish of her heart, 
 and cry, '' Oh ! baby, father's gone !"
 
 13 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 SWAMP TOWN. 
 
 SWAMP TOWN. Have you ever been 
 there, reader? It is situated in one 
 of the northern suburbs of London, and 
 within the present writer s recollection, the 
 ground it occupies was a pleasant open 
 green, through which a canal slowly wound 
 its way. But the land was let out on short 
 leases, and as no one cared to invest much 
 in building property that would not be theirs 
 for more than twenty-one years, one row of 
 wretched, ill-built tenements was run up 
 after the other — small four-roomed houses, 
 mostly built of old materials, and letting the 
 rain in through their wretched roofs, the wind
 
 1% 
 
 MEG. 
 
 through their draughty, ill-hung doors and 
 windows, and the wet ooze up from below 
 the flooring, which had been laid almost 
 flat on the soil beneath. As to roads 
 through Swamp Town, they " grew," like 
 Topsy ; there were lines of mud and quag- 
 mire, that washed into the doorways of the 
 dwellings on either side of them, which 
 were called Prospect Row and Paradise 
 Place ; and in the summer the mud dried 
 and pulverized into fine dust, through which 
 pedestrians had to wade ankle deep, and 
 horses sometimes sunk in almost to their 
 knees. At the back of Swamp Town ran 
 the canal, near the great dust heaps, which 
 gave employment to so many of its inhabi- 
 tants — nearly all who did not get their 
 livelihood in this manner occupying them- 
 selves as costermongers, or hawkers of small 
 articles. Drainage there was none in 
 Swamp Town ; and sometimes in summer
 
 SWAMP TOWN. 15 
 
 the stencil and miasma were frightful, gene- 
 rating all kinds of fevers, and mercifully 
 sweeping off the children in numbers. 
 
 At the time of which I speak, about a 
 dozen years ago, there was neither church 
 nor chapel, but there had at last been some 
 talk of building the former ; and meanwhile 
 a clergyman had been engaged to officiate 
 as Home Missionary amongst the pagans of 
 Swamp Town. He was a good, well-mean- 
 ing man enough, but whether or not he was 
 fit for his work, there was little as yet to 
 show for it; but indeed he had not been 
 long in the field, and it was early days as 
 yet to look for any result of his labours. 
 There had come other workers, too, in the 
 last few months. A band of ladies had been 
 stirred by the wretchedness and squalor of 
 the place to see what they could do for 
 it, had started a soup-kitchen, organized a 
 plan of house-to-house visiting, were trying
 
 16 MEG. 
 
 to establish sewing parties for the girls, and 
 get them to join classes for instruction in 
 reading. 
 
 The inhabitants of Swamp Town looked 
 at first suspiciously upon both the clergy- 
 man and the ladies, but some of the latter 
 were women not easily daunted, and they 
 had the gifts so essential to those who visit 
 amongst the poor — great patience, great 
 hopefulness, and tact. 
 
 Meg had seen little of them. She had 
 her baby to mind, and her small household 
 affairs to see to, so she would not go with 
 the other girls to the sewing and reading 
 classes ; and she had a dogged pride of her 
 own, which, when Joe's illness came on, 
 prevented her applying to the soup kitchen 
 for relief She had sold nearly all her own 
 and Joe's wearing apparel to supply him 
 with necessaries, and the furniture must 
 have gone next, had not Joe been taken
 
 SWAMP TOWN. 17 
 
 away as he was — which was a mercy, her 
 mother told her, for he might have gone 
 " Hngerin' on for weeks, till she had had to 
 sell the very bed from under him." As it 
 was, the parish had to perform the last poor 
 duties for Joe. Meg followed him to the 
 grave, carrying her baby; and then she went 
 back to her home, which, her mother told 
 her, she was going to share with her. 
 
 " For you'll be terrible lonely, Meg, girl, 
 all by yourself, and perhaps it'll be best for 
 us to take it turn and turn about to go out, 
 or stop in and mind the baby. Or I don't 
 know but what it'll be as well for you to go 
 out altogether. Vi'lets is coming in, and 
 you'll make a better hand at selling them 
 than I shall — 'specially with the gentle- 
 man." 
 
 So Meg went out with her violets, and 
 had, as her mother had expected, far better 
 fortune with them than she would ever 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 18 MEG. 
 
 have had herself. Gentlemen bought be- 
 cause the vendor was so fair to look upon, 
 and ladies because they pitied the poor 
 young thing out in the chill March air, v^ho 
 was so young, and looked so innocent. It 
 was a great trouble to have to leave her 
 baby, but her mother thought that the child 
 might spoil her trade, especially with the 
 ladies, giving Meg, as a reason, however, for 
 not allowing her to take the child, the fact 
 that it was delicate, and the keen winds 
 would increase the cold under which it was 
 labouring. So when Meg had disposed of 
 her violets, she would hasten home to her 
 baby, whicli she always found quiet, and 
 generally asleep, and having nursed and fed 
 it, would go out again to sell play-bills at 
 the doors of the theatres ; then, when the 
 half-price visitors had gone in, and there 
 was no chance of selling any more, go back 
 again to her cheerless home, and sit by the
 
 SWAMP TOWN. 19 
 
 fire, with her baby on her lap, thinking of 
 Joe, till her mother's querulous voice told 
 her it was time to go to bed. 
 
 Poor Meg ! it was a comfort to find the 
 little one always " so good." In her ignor- 
 ance she was not aware that the most vio- 
 lent crying, the most " fractious " temper 
 that ever wore out a nurse's patience, would 
 have been better than that over-quietness. 
 The child had been born weak, with but 
 little hold on life, but what it had had been 
 pretty well dosed out of it by its grand- 
 mother. The old woman had always some- 
 thing " comforting " handy to give it when- 
 ever it opened its little mouth to utter a 
 feeble cry, and the poor babe would fall 
 asleep again, and give no further trouble 
 for some hours to its grandmother. 
 
 " It saved a deal o' trouble," Mrs. Blount 
 said, " and the child was better so than al- 
 ways pesterin' in arms." 
 
 c2
 
 20 MEG. 
 
 Meg gave her all her earnings — they were 
 few enough after all — her mother had com- 
 pletely regained the ascendancy she had had 
 over her before she began housekeeping with 
 Joe ; or rather, since the great trouble had be- 
 fallen her, the girl had been too tame and 
 spiritless to oppose her own will to Mrs. 
 Blount's. " And after all, if mother had 
 her ways, she was good to baby, an' where 
 was the good of troublin' ?" 
 
 Where indeed ? Where was the use of 
 troubling about anything, now Joe was in 
 his grave, and Meg's heart buried with him. 
 
 Mrs. Blount certainly had her ways — not 
 altogether agreeable ones, and although some 
 of them were too common to most of the 
 dwellers in Swamp Town to cause much re- 
 mark, others were of a more peculiar nature, 
 and distinguished Mrs. Blount unpleasantly 
 from her neighbours. She drank whenever 
 she could get the wherewithal ; but that was
 
 SWAMP TOWN. 21 
 
 not at all an uncommon thing for an elderly 
 lady to do in Swamp Town, and Mrs. Blount 
 was not quarrelsome in her cups, had never 
 been known to pull a friend's hair, tear her 
 cap, or call her rude names, let her have 
 taken what amount of gin she might. But I 
 think the other ladies in Swamp Town would 
 have forgiven her if she had occasionally for- 
 gotten herself in this manner; for, after all, it 
 was what they were accustomed to in one 
 another, and they had no want of forbear- 
 ance towards such occasional aberrations. 
 But Mrs. Blount " gave herself airs" when 
 she was not sober, and was a " stuck-up 
 thing, without any call to be so," the ladies 
 in Swamp Town said; for, after all, what had 
 her first husband been but a convict, and as 
 to Meg's father, if he'd been good for any- 
 thing would he ever have left her to shift 
 for the child and herself as he had done? 
 But Mrs. Blount treated all their remarks,
 
 22 MEG. 
 
 when slie heard them, with a disdainful silence. 
 Tliey came from ^' a low lot, and she never 
 troubled herself to listen to sich." Swamp 
 Town was good enough for Mrs. Blount sober; 
 but Swamp Town, when she was otherwise, was 
 regarded by her with supreme disdain. And, 
 unhappily, to be sober was with Mrs. Blount 
 the exception, not the rule — her normal con- 
 dition, when at all in funds, being a sort of 
 half-way stage between the two extremes of 
 drunkenness and sobriety. She was apt to 
 be rather sharp and querulous with Meg, and 
 to look keenly after her, to see that she ex- 
 erted herself to the utmost in selling play- 
 bills and hawking violets. Let the weather 
 be what it might, out Meg must go, and she 
 had a hard time of it when she came home if 
 she had not disposed of her stock in trade. But 
 Meg was used to hardships — she had begun 
 life by selling water-cresses and matches, and 
 she had become so accustomed to the streets,
 
 SWAMP TOWN. 23 
 
 tliey seemed more her home than her little 
 room that Joe no longer shared. It had been 
 such a happy thne that one year with Joe 
 — with Joe, who was a man, and worked for 
 her and himself too, and kept her indoors 
 out of the cold wind and pattering rain, that 
 he was always ready himself to brave. 
 Poor Joe ! he had not been altogether per- 
 fect, apt to swear, and use coarse words; and 
 when the drink was on him, he had some- 
 times struck her, as is the custom with men 
 of his class. But what did that matter ? If 
 he could only have been living now to strike 
 her as he pleased ! 
 
 The spring ripened into summer, and Meg 
 changed her violets for pinks and roses, and 
 the sunshine, that even in great cities is a 
 glad and blessed thing, found its way into 
 the girl's darkened soul, and lightened it of 
 some of its heaviness. She was so young, 
 and it is not so easy for the young to be kill-
 
 24 MEG. 
 
 ed by grief as they imagine, and life was 
 strong in her, so after a time Meg found 
 herself able to laugh with her companions, 
 and sometimes join in their coarse jokes. 
 
 Not always, though — they had never been 
 much to her taste — the girls around some- 
 times said of her, "Meg was a lady, and 
 took after her mother." 
 
 And on Sundays she went out with her 
 baby, taking long walks with it, till they 
 reached the green fields, where she would 
 sit down to listen to the twitter of the birds, 
 and look up to the blue sky, and think if 
 only Joe had been there to enjoy it all with 
 her. Only Joe ! and he was still in his grave, 
 down, down with the clods and the worms, 
 where never voice of birds could reach, or 
 sunshine cheer him more. And then Meg 
 would cry in her despair, weeping the pas- 
 sionate rain of tears which save young hearts 
 from breaking, and wish that she and baby.
 
 SWAMP TOWN. 25 
 
 too, were both with Joe ; for what right had 
 they to live and look on the flowers, and 
 the light, and the fresh green earth, while 
 Joe knew nothing of them ?
 
 2G 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 TAKEN AWAY 
 
 OO the summer passed on. Meg heard 
 '^ her companions sometimes speak of 
 the clergyman's visits to their homes, and 
 she knew that he had been to her own once 
 or twice when she was absent. Two or 
 three of the ladies had called, but Meg saw 
 nothing of them either, as she was so little 
 at home till the evening. She would have 
 been glad to have seen them, and wondered 
 " what like they were, to come to folks in 
 Swamp Town !" But her mother had not 
 much to tell her of them. 
 
 " The parson was like all other parsons, 
 and talked a lot of stuff that there was no
 
 TAKEN AWAY. 27 
 
 understanding ; as to the ladies — well, they 
 were ladies — slie would say that of them; 
 but folks were better at home, to her think- 
 ing, than prying and poking about other 
 people's houses, where they were not want- 
 ed, and finding fault with everything they 
 saw. Things was changed — once there was 
 a time when she'd sat down with such, and 
 drunk her tea out of silver and chaney, and 
 no one would have thought of finding fault 
 with her management of a baby then ; but 
 folks thought they might say what they 
 liked, to such as weren't so well off as they 
 had been." 
 
 Mrs. Blount, indeed, had been seriously 
 offended by one of the visitors, a widow 
 lady and a mother, who, mistrusting the 
 baby's appearance and quietness, had ques- 
 tioned her so closely that she had at last 
 elicited the nature of " baby's comfort," and 
 the frequency of its administration. She
 
 28 MEG. 
 
 was so urgent in her appeals to Mrs. Blount 
 to discontinue it, that that worthy matron 
 had received the advice as a personal affront, 
 and a slur upon her own good management 
 of infancy, and hence was not inclined to 
 look too favourably upon any future visits 
 she might receive. 
 
 It would have been a good thing for Meg 
 had she been at home on these occasions. 
 These women had chosen a difficult work, 
 and they were doing it well. They had an 
 idea — some of them, at least — that the right 
 way to reach the hearts and waken the 
 minds of those lost in dense, stolid, brutaliz- 
 ing ignorance, was not by attempting to ex- 
 plain the highest and most intricate mysteries 
 which the minds of a Newton or a Locke 
 would fail to pierce — that it was of little 
 use talking to men of saving faith before 
 you had made them feel that they had souls 
 for that faith to save; that it was of doubtful
 
 TAKEN AWAY. 29 
 
 utility to expect those who were worn out 
 with privation, or soddened with drink, to 
 comprehend the hard things of which Paul 
 wrote, and which even Peter found it diffi- 
 cult to understand. 
 
 There were some of Meg's companions — 
 girls of her own age — who could not have 
 told you the name of the country they lived 
 in, or the Queen who governed them ; there 
 were mothers, too, amongst these girls — 
 mothers who had not formed the compara- 
 tively respectable connection Meg had with 
 Joe, and which, possibly, had his life been 
 trebled in length, might have endured as 
 long — mothers with cliildren that called no 
 man father, and which they were as proud 
 and fond of — for the instincts of mother- 
 hood were strong in many of them — as the 
 happiest and most honoured wife could be 
 of hers. Yes, they were mothers like the 
 brutes, and with no more sense of wrong or
 
 30 MEG. 
 
 shame in being so. Lost? do you say. 
 Why, like Meg, they were that from their 
 birth ! What chance had any girl growing 
 up in Swamp Town, of learning what is 
 pure and chaste, lovely, and of good re- 
 port ? The very shamelessness with which 
 they would show a visitor their babies, was, 
 in one sense, their most redeeming point. 
 They had sinned in ignorance, and, after all, 
 tiresome and wearying as the little ones 
 might be, on the whole they were not ill- 
 treated. Human nature is not all bad, even 
 in Swamp Town, as I think the motherliness 
 of these un wedded mothers might go some 
 way to prove. So it was in these that the 
 ^ visitors of Swamp Town tried to awaken a 
 sense of better things — of womanly ways, 
 of neatness, cleanliness, and modesty — be- 
 ginning with small things, in the hope of 
 leading them on to better. 
 
 But, as I said, Meg was never in the way
 
 TAKEN AWAY. 31 
 
 when they called, and her mother was not 
 one to profit much by such gentle ministra- 
 tions. So the summer went on, and even 
 Meg's eyes could not fail to perceive that the 
 baby was growing weaker and punier every 
 day, and at last she insisted on having her 
 own way, and taking the child to a doctor who 
 saw patients gratis every morning. He was a 
 rising man, pushing his way fast into an ex- 
 tensive practice, and not disposed to waste 
 much time or many amenities upon his poorer 
 patients. He looked at the tiny creature, 
 now nearly nine months old, and no heavier 
 or larger than many a healthy babe of one, 
 listened to its breathing, felt its little flicker- 
 ing pulse, asked its age, and then told Meg 
 she would never rear it. It had water on 
 the brain, and he suspected inflammation on 
 the chest was fast setting in. Meg gave a 
 great cry, and looked at him in wide-eyed 
 horror. Was she to lose this too? Was
 
 32 MEG. 
 
 this — this to go as well ? And she flung 
 herself on her knees to the doctor, and 
 asked him if he couldn't save her little one. 
 
 " I can't spare him !" she gasped ; " Joe's 
 gone, and I've nothing now but Willie ! 
 He nmstn't die ! — he can't die ! Oh ! doc- 
 tor, folks say you can do such wonderful 
 things, can't you — can't you save my little 
 babv for me ?" 
 
 Meg was getting troublesome, and the 
 doctor was used to scenes of distress ; but 
 she must be got quietly out of the surgery. 
 He asked her where she lived, told her he 
 would come and see the child the next time 
 he came that way, gave her a little medicine 
 for it, and so got Meg out of the room, and 
 turned his attention to another patient. On 
 she went with her little burthen, walking 
 like one in a dream, till a heavy shower of 
 rain came on, and Meg had to look for 
 shelter. There was none in the street — the
 
 TAKEN AWAY. 33 
 
 houses were all private, and not a single 
 door had a portico. She took off her thin, 
 old shawl, and wrapped it round the baby, 
 but it was of little more protection than so 
 much thin paper, and she ran on as fast as 
 she could ; but still she could not run fast 
 enough to prevent herself and the little one 
 being wet through. 
 
 This unlooked-for accident completed mat- 
 ters as far as the baby was concerned — the 
 inflammation the doctor had spoken of set 
 in in good earnest, and before three dayl5 
 were over, baby was stiller than ever, and 
 Meg, with despairing, tearless eyes, looked on 
 a little corpse. Never for her had the words 
 sounded, "Suffer the little ones to come unto 
 Me, for of such is the kingdom of Heaven." 
 Never for her. Baby and its father were 
 gone away, and Meg knew of no hereafter. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 34 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 NEW WORK FOR MEG. 
 
 TT was early spring, and violets were 
 ^ scarce this year, so Meg tried what 
 wall-flowers would do for her. Baby had 
 gone, and she had no longer Joe, but she 
 must eat, and bread must be earned and 
 bought, though the life it sustained was 
 hardly worth the living. Her mother, too, 
 required more care and better food than 
 Meg could give her. The last winter had 
 been a long and trying one to many in 
 Swamp Town, and Mrs. Blount had well- 
 nigh sunk under it. She now kept her bed 
 constantly. The neighbours — Joe's mother 
 especially — came in and out to see to her,
 
 NEW WOEK FOE MEG. 35 
 
 which was the more creditable to their 
 good-nature, as Mrs. Blount was rather a 
 trying invalid — not easily pleased, sadly 
 given to grumbling, and apt to take offence 
 at trifles. She could not so easily get 
 drunk now, but her illness had the same 
 effect upon her that her potations had had 
 before, filling her mind with reminiscences 
 of former state and splendour, " when she 
 was waited on hand and foot, and hadn't so 
 much as to lift her little finger to help her- 
 self." Her neighbours were very toleranl 
 of her captiousness, however, bearing with 
 her partly on ^Meg's account, and partly, 
 too, because even Swamp Town had its own 
 notions of duty, and thought it ought to 
 help its neighbour now and then. The 
 clergyman came to see her, and she re- 
 ceived his visits with a bland condescension, 
 that was rather edifying, under the circum- 
 stances ; even exerting herself to get up a 
 
 d2
 
 36 MEG. 
 
 few phrases that she had learned long ago 
 at a Sunday-school she had attended for a 
 few months, and which, though she had 
 never rightly understood their meaning, she 
 considered it would be civil and proper to 
 use when addressing a clergyman. On the 
 whole, her civility was very much to her 
 credit, for, as she told her intimates — 
 
 " He's got his livin' to get, like the rest 
 of us, and though it's a funny way of gettin' 
 it, to go talkui' first to one, and then to the 
 other, about a pack o' stuff that there's no 
 gettin' to the bottom of, still, there's no 
 harm in lettin' him talk on. It gives him a 
 little encouragement. I'll go and hear him 
 when that new church is built they talk of, 
 if I get well enough, and can scrape the 
 money together for a decent bonnet ; but 
 Meg's a poor hand at her business, or she'd 
 get a deal more than she does. Ah ! well, 
 she wasn't born to it, that's one thing — to
 
 NEW WORK FOR MEG. 37 
 
 think of a girl of mine getting her living by 
 selling flowers in the street !" 
 
 Meg, perhaps, was not clever at her 
 trade, or times were hard, and people had 
 not much money to spare for flowers ; but 
 she found it a hard matter to provide 
 enough for her own wants and her mother s, 
 and was standing, weary and hopeless, at 
 the close of a chilly day in March, thinking 
 what a pleasant thing it must be to be sure 
 of the next day's food every night, and 
 wondering where hers was to come from* 
 when she had only twopence-halfpenny to 
 take home, and had left only half a loaf in 
 the cupboard. It was so cold, that the 
 people were fast hurrying home, glad to be 
 out of the keen blast, and Meg's last chance 
 of selling her flowers seemed failing, for no 
 one appeared inclined to stop in the keen 
 wind to buy them. Meg shivered, and 
 drew her thin old shawl the closer, and was
 
 38 MEG. 
 
 about to walk on, to try if she could find a 
 corner a little more sheltered from the 
 wind, when her attention was attracted by 
 a lady, short, and inclining to be stout, who 
 was coming towards her with a brisk, de- 
 cided step — the step of a woman who had 
 very much to do, and who felt that her 
 every movement was of some importance to 
 herself and the world in general. She 
 might be nearer forty than thirty, and could 
 never have been handsome, even in her 
 youth. It was a peculiar face — a dull, sal- 
 low complexion, a low, broad forehead, 
 with the thick black hair growing so as to 
 make it appear lower still ; keen, small grey 
 eyes, a broad, massive nose, and thin firm 
 set lips. It was not the face of a woman 
 likely to buy flowers, and Meg had little 
 hopes of finding her a purchaser ; still, she 
 would try ; and therefore, as the lady came
 
 NEW WORK FOR MEG. 39 
 
 near, she held forward her best bunch 
 with — 
 
 " Only a penny, lady — see, all these, and 
 only a penny." 
 
 " Don't want them, girl," was the impa- 
 tient reply. "Take care you don't get 
 taken up for begging, if you annoy people 
 like this." 
 
 The lady was about to pass on, when she 
 caught sight of Meg's face. It had lost 
 something of its first brilliance of colour 
 since we first saw it, and had a thin, worn* 
 weary look, which, however, gave some- 
 thing of refinement and pathos to its beauty. 
 It was a strange face for a street girl to 
 wear, and so the lady seemed to think. She 
 looked at Meg critically and approvingly. 
 It was a cold, fixed, steady look — ^not an 
 atom of kindly feeling or interest in it. 
 She was mentally appraising all Meg's
 
 40 MEG. 
 
 points, as a man might those of a horse he 
 was asked to give an opinion on. 
 
 Meg shrunk from the look — she had 
 never been so surveyed before. Gentlemen, 
 and, indeed, men of all grades, had some- 
 times expressed their admiration of her in 
 outspoken terms ; and even ladies, when 
 they bought her flowers, had let their eyes 
 rest on her face, half wondering at its 
 beauty ; but such a glance as this Meg had 
 never yet encountered. Apparently the 
 lady was satisfied with the result, for in- 
 stead of passing on, she stopped to question 
 Meg in a hard, dry, business tone, as to her 
 name, her parentage, and place of abode. 
 
 Meg answered civilly to all : perhaps the 
 lady was a District Visitor, and would come 
 and see her mother, in which case Meg felt 
 very doubtful of the reception she would 
 meet with ; but, at any rate, if Meg were 
 civil, she would most likely buy her flow-
 
 NEW WORK FOR MEG. 41 
 
 ers when she had done questioning her. 
 
 "And how do you get your living?" the 
 lady continued. " By idling in the streets, 
 pestering people to buy what they don't 
 want, and hindering their time to tell you 
 so?" 
 
 " I sell play-bills sometimes," said Meg ; 
 " and I've tried oranges in the winter." 
 
 " Ah ! all bad alike — only so many ex- 
 cuses for idleness. The police ought to be 
 ashamed of themselves for allowing it. I* 
 think, if you're willing, I can find something 
 better for you to do than standing about in 
 the streets. Have you a mind to try ?" 
 
 "Yes," said Meg doubtfully. She had 
 no great faith in her questioner. "That's 
 if I'm paid for what I'm set to do." 
 
 " Paid ! of course you'll be paid. You 
 don't suppose I want you to work for no- 
 thing ? Come to my home to-morrow morn- 
 ing, at ten o'clock — it's number thirty in this
 
 42 MEG. 
 
 street. You won't forget? Wash your 
 face, mind, and give your hair a good brush- 
 ing. How long is it, by-the-bye ?" 
 
 How long ! Whatever could the lady 
 want to know the length of Meg's hair for ? 
 Surely she never dealt in such a commodity? 
 The girl started and coloured, and then 
 stammered out, 
 
 " Please, ma'am, times is hard, and I 
 never makes much by my flowers ; but — ^but 
 I shouldn't like to sell it." 
 
 Tho lady laughed a hard, harsh laugh. 
 
 " I'm no wig-maker," she said ; " and you 
 may make much more by keeping your hair 
 on your head than by cutting it off. But I 
 hope it's a good length. Now mind you 
 come to my house to-morrow. Don't dis- 
 appoint me ; I shall set you to work at once 
 that will be very easy indeed for you to do, 
 and pay you for it each day as soon as it's 
 done."
 
 NEW WORK FOR MEG. 43 
 
 She glanced once more at Meg's toilet — 
 not a disapproving look, though Meg her- 
 self felt ashamed of her rags and wretched- 
 ness. 
 
 " Please, ma'am, I know my clothes is 
 bad, and the best are all in pawn. Things 
 has been so bad this winter," said Meg, apo- 
 logetically; "but I could borrow Sally 
 Smith's new gown, an' Jane Brett's got a 
 tidyish bonnet and shawl, I thinks she'd 
 lend me, so as I could come decent to your 
 place." 
 
 " Don't put them on, on any account," 
 cried the lady sharply. "You'll do much 
 better just as you are — basket and all, re- 
 member ; and if you've got an older gown, 
 with more patches in it, I think I should like 
 it better. Only wash your face, — yes, we 
 must have that done," she added, glancing 
 again critically at Meg, " on account of the 
 lights and shades — dirt, too, would inter-
 
 44 MEG. 
 
 fere with the colouring. No, she must come 
 clean." 
 
 Then telling Meg her number again, and 
 charging her to be punctual, the lady crossed 
 the street, and went in at number thirty ; and 
 Meg, thinking it useless to stop out in the 
 cold any longer, walked towards home, 
 speculating as she went what possible work 
 she could be set to do in which it would 
 be an advantage to have long hair, and a 
 gown, if possible, more patched than that 
 she had on.
 
 45 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 A VOTARY OF HIGH ART. 
 
 "VTO. 30, Courtmain Street, was inhabited 
 -^ ^ by a widow lady, Mrs. Mayne, the 
 very same who had startled Meg with so 
 many questions, and by her strange odd way 
 of putting them. Mrs. Mayne was peculiar, 
 and her peculiarity being apt to take a 
 brusque and unpleasant form, she was not so 
 popular as she might have been. From a 
 girl she had had a strong liking Jfor art, 
 which her parents had allowed to be culti- 
 vated at the expense, perhaps, of other 
 things. 
 
 Whether they were to blame or not, she 
 grew up a clever but not very agreeable per-
 
 46 MEG. 
 
 son, with great faith in her own powers, a 
 great reverence for her art, and very little 
 faith or reverence for anything in the world be- 
 sides. Perhaps her training had not been the 
 best in the world, in other ways than that of 
 being suffered to cultivate her powers as a 
 painter too exclusively. Her father, in his 
 day, had been a famous lecturer, both on 
 political and religious subjects, had written 
 for a well-known paper of very democratic 
 tendencies, and in his way had made himself 
 a man of some note and importance. But 
 his ideas were liberal on other subjects than 
 politics or religion, and his wife thought un- 
 duly so. She was a handsome woman, and 
 very clever, much too clever for the wife of 
 a genius, and much too spirited to submit 
 tamely to seeing the genius lavish on another 
 the attentions which, as a wife, she con- 
 sidered were her due alone. Consequently 
 there was not much peace in the household
 
 A VOTARY OF HIGH ART. 47 
 
 in which Mrs. Mayne's girlhood was spent ; 
 it was not a home in which a girl was likely 
 to grow up into either a very happy or a 
 very good woman. All the chief subjects of 
 the day were discussed — very often by some 
 of its leading minds — in her hearing; and be- 
 fore she was fifteen, Rosa Baring had her own 
 set of opinions upon every subject that she 
 thought worth troubling herself about; 
 opinions that she considered herself quite 
 competent to maintain against any and* 
 every one, her father and mother not ex- 
 cepted, who might venture to dispute them. 
 Religion, morals, social courtesy — Miss Bar- 
 ing could have taught the world upon these 
 matters, if need be, but had nothing to learn 
 from it. 
 
 On the whole, it was perhaps not a bad 
 thing that she had given herself up to art — 
 there is no knowing else into what aberra- 
 tions her self-will and scorn of all conven-
 
 48 MEG. 
 
 tionalities might have led her; and, con- 
 sidering all things, she was not a bad daugh- 
 ter. There was one thing to be said, if she 
 respected anything, it was talent — artistic 
 talent first, and after that, talent of any kind 
 whatever. And certainly her father and 
 mother were very clever people — the mere 
 fact of their being her father and mother 
 did not at all influence her in acknowledging 
 them to be so. She was not at all disposed 
 to give a superstitious reverence to the fifth 
 commandment. But she was quite aware of 
 her fathers position, and the influence he 
 held ; of her mother's skill and shrewdness 
 in the ordinary affairs of life, and of the 
 grace and conversational powers which made 
 her — on public days, at least — so charming a 
 mistress of the house. She thought it a 
 great pity papa would talk nonsense to other 
 people when it annoyed mamma — he meant 
 no harm — at least, she believed he did not ;
 
 A VOTARY OF HIGH ART. 49 
 
 and it was very foolish of mamma to worry 
 herself about such trifles. After all, why 
 couldn't she shut her eyes to anything papa 
 did not want her to see — it was so much 
 more sensible to take things quietly. Still, 
 she bore very well with the parental fail- 
 ings, and, on the whole, was as dutiful as 
 many a more decorous young lady, and pur- 
 sued her artistic career undisturbed by the 
 household storms that rose ever and anon, 
 when papa's aberrations had been too glar- 
 ing, or mamma had shown her resentment 
 a little too fiercely. 
 
 At thirty-two she had an oiFer — her very 
 first ; and after ^due consideration she ac- 
 cepted it, her father giving his consent, 
 which was perfectly needless, as Rosa would 
 have married just as complacently without 
 it ; but giving nothing else. Indeed, he 
 would have found it difiicult to do so, good 
 as the income was which he derived from 
 
 VOL, I. E
 
 50 MEG. 
 
 his lectureships and liis weekly contributions 
 to the Pep2:fere)\ the style in which he 
 thought it right to live swallowing it all up. 
 But there was the connection — as Mrs. Bar- 
 ing said, in her most dignified manner — there 
 was the connection — what could any man 
 want more than the distinction of being son- 
 in-law to Mr. Baring? In her way, she 
 respected her husband too, in spite of his 
 many sins against herself. He was some- 
 thing to be proud of, and I doubt if she 
 was not happier as his neglected, almost in- 
 sulted wife, than if she had been the idol- 
 ized darling of some obscure, plodding indi- 
 vidual, content simply to practise the com- 
 mon-place duties of husband and father, 
 leaving it to others to declaim upon the sins 
 of the upper classes, and the God-like natures 
 of the lower. 
 
 At the end of three years' marriage, Rosa 
 13aring, now Mrs. Mayne, was a widow.
 
 A VOTAEY OF HIGH ART. 51 
 
 The wonder was, people said, that poor 
 Ma^oie, who had always been delicate, had 
 not been killed off long before. He had 
 been a sculptor, consequently her marriage 
 had thrown Mrs. Mayne more than ever 
 amongst art and artists ; and at his death 
 she vowed never to be fettered by matrimo- 
 nial ties again, but to devote herself to her 
 favourite pursuit. Poor Mayne had not 
 ranked very high in his profession, and his 
 wife and mother-in-law had been in the 
 habit of looking down upon him — compared 
 with the famous lecturer and politician, he 
 seemed a very small, common-place person 
 indeed. But he had done his best for his 
 wife, insured his life for some thousands, 
 and left the insurance, with the lease of the 
 house they had lived in, his different works, 
 and the entire residue of his property, to 
 her, unshackled by any restriction. So Mrs. 
 Mayne found herself in comfortable circum- 
 
 UIVfJVERSITY OF fLUNOSS
 
 52 MEG. 
 
 stances, and had reason to congratulate her- 
 self on having married, when, six months 
 after, her father died, leaving her nothing, 
 and his wife the furniture of his house, 
 and just fifty pounds owing to him by the 
 Fepperer. 
 
 Mr. Mayne had been a model husband to 
 a plain wife, had believed in her implicitly, 
 and provided for her liberally. Mr. Baring 
 for years had neglected his, although a still 
 handsome and attractive woman, and out of 
 an ample income had not attempted to make 
 the slightest provision for her. Mr. Mayne 
 and his wife had never had a quarrel the 
 whole time of their marriage. How could 
 they, when he gave her her way in every- 
 thing? Mr. Barings home had been a 
 scene of continual dissension, recrimination, 
 and reproach — the latter, generally speak- 
 ing, very well deserved by him. But, of the 
 two, he was by far the most regretted.
 
 A VOTARY OF HIGH ART. 5S 
 
 Now he was gone, in Mrs. Baring's eyes his 
 faults and infidehties were swallowed up in 
 the lustre of his fame. She was a selfish 
 woman, too, and keenly alive to the loss of 
 comfort and position entailed by her hus- 
 band's death ; but she never reproached his' 
 memory, and was very tenacious of others 
 doing so. There was some talk of erecting 
 a monument in Kensal Green, by public sub- 
 scription, to the late Mr. Baring, and a 
 sympathizing friend, moved by compassion 
 for his widow's destitute condition, ob- 
 served — 
 
 " It would be far better, Mrs. Baring, to 
 get up a subscription for you." 
 
 '' They might do that as well," said she. 
 
 It seemed purely a matter of course to 
 her that Mr. Baring's memory should be 
 honoured, and his widow provided for by a 
 grateful public, to whose service he had de- 
 voted his talents in his lifetime. However,
 
 M MEG. 
 
 the monument was not erected, and no one 
 started a subscription in behalf of Mrs. Bar- 
 ing, who sold off her furniture, and went to 
 reside in a small private boarding-house near 
 her daughter. It would have seemed more 
 natural that the two should have lived to- 
 gether, but Mrs. Mayne had no wish to have 
 too much of her mother's society, and pre- 
 ferred allowing her a small yearly sum, 
 which, with an annuity purchased by the 
 proceeds of the late Mr. Baring's effects, was 
 sufficient to maintain her in comfort at the 
 boarding-house. 
 
 " We're best apart, mamma and I," Mrs. 
 Mayne said, candidly. " She'd be sure to 
 lecture me, now she hasn't poor papa to keep 
 in order. But we shall be very good friends 
 indeed, as long as we don't see too much of 
 one another." 
 
 Mrs. Mayne was now devoting her ener- 
 gies to her favourite pursuit. She had her
 
 A VOTARY OF HIGH ART. 55^ 
 
 Qwn ideas on the subject, and was anxious 
 to indoctrinate tlie rising (feminine) genera- 
 tion with them. So she opened a school 
 for female pupils, where the art taught was 
 very high indeed, and the young ladies 
 (though Mrs. Mayne would have scorned to 
 have called them anything but students) 
 were expected to ignore the little pruderies 
 and conventionalities of their sex, and give 
 themselves up to their profession, quite un- 
 shackled by the old-world trammels, which 
 might have proved hindrances to their 
 career. 
 
 Mrs. Mayne was very outspoken indeed 
 on this matter — so outspoken that some of 
 the parents of the students removed them 
 from her tuition, not being sufficiently ad- 
 vanced in artistic feeling to enter into her 
 views of the subject. Mrs. Mayne ridiculed 
 them as purists, and went on with her teach- 
 ings to the few that remained ; and it was
 
 56 MEG. 
 
 for the benefit of these that she wished to 
 secure Meg's services as a model. 
 
 Twelve o'clock came, and with it Meg. 
 She had been waiting outside the door, in 
 fact, for the last five minutes, listening for 
 the church clock in the adjacent square to 
 strike the hour before she knocked. Then 
 she gave one timid rap, which was answered 
 by a maid-servant, who, having been told to 
 expect Meg, was not surprised at her ap- 
 pearance, but ushered her at once into the 
 studio, where Mrs. Mayne and the pupils 
 were awaiting her. 
 
 It was a large room at the back of the 
 house, lit by a skylight, and round it were 
 different casts and busts for the girls to 
 copy — the Farnese Hercules, the Apollo 
 Belvedere, the Dying Gladiator. Mrs. Mayne 
 liked her girls to study the human form 
 divine, as exemplified in the male subject ; 
 and as some of them shrunk from doing so
 
 A VOTARY OF HIGH ART. 57 
 
 when that subject happened to be in flesh 
 and blood, why, she made a sacrifice of her 
 principles to their weakness, and allowed 
 them to draw from the cast. 
 
 It was a pitiful concession — she almost 
 despised herself for making it; but yet, 
 while the feminine mind was still so tram- 
 melled by old-world prejudices, as to refuse 
 to look at a model merely in an artistic 
 point of view, she was obliged to humour it 
 a little — otherwise her pupils might have 
 failed her altogether; and though this would 
 not have troubled her in a pecuniary point 
 of view, still she liked the little excitement 
 of teaching, and had great hopes ^ that in the 
 course of a few years she might see around 
 her a band of female painters with ideas as 
 artistic and unfettered as her own. 
 
 Several paintings by Mrs. Mayne, in dif- 
 ferent stages of ugliness, were on the walls. 
 Of course she belonged to the intensely Pre-
 
 58 MEG. 
 
 Rapliaelite School, and it was almost a wonder 
 that Meg's beauty had not repelled, instead 
 of attracting her. But the girls had been 
 grumbling lately, the last old man had been so 
 insufferably hideous, and smelt so terribly of 
 tobacco, and the younger model was an im- 
 pertinent fellow, who had winked, actually 
 winked at them, when Mrs. Mayne was ex- 
 patiating on the development of his biceps, 
 and the massive amplitude of his chest. 
 
 They wanted a change, they said, and 
 something more attractive to study than 
 muscles and sinews ; and Mrs. Mayne had 
 resolved to humour them for a time, and 
 look out for a child who could be tauo^ht to 
 sit still by the hour together. She had her 
 eye already on one little unfortunate, the 
 daughter of her washerwoman, when it so 
 happened that she encountered Meg, who 
 appeared just what she required. 
 
 Meg looked around her timidly. Mrs.
 
 A VOTARY OF HIGH ART. 59 
 
 Mayne was in the midst of her pupils, who 
 were gathered round her easel, whereon was 
 a picture, " Boadicea," nearly completed. 
 Boadicea was fearfully ugly ; the model had 
 been a plain woman, but Mrs. Mayne had 
 intensified her plainness. Boadicea was stalk- 
 ing through a forest, where every leaf was 
 depictured with startling accuracy, and the 
 undergrowth of brambles worked out with 
 a minuteness that made you feel, the girls 
 said, as if the thorns were running into you. • 
 It was not a pleasing picture, Boadicea being 
 so hideous, and the forest such a tangle of 
 briers; and the green leaves of the trees, and 
 the yellow hair and blue robes of the British 
 queen, were painted in such glowing colours, 
 that you could only suppose that the ancient 
 Britons must have used very wonderful dyes, 
 and Nature, in their time, dealt in pigments 
 which she had long since laid aside. 
 
 Mrs. Mayne was giving her pupils a lecture
 
 60 MEG. 
 
 on colouring, illustrated by this picture. 
 She was looking, if anything, plainer and 
 harder than the day before. Her hair 
 (there was not too much of it, and the tex- 
 ture was coarse and harsh) was drawn off 
 her forehead, and rolled up in a knot behind, 
 with the obvious intention of being as much 
 out of the way as possible. She had on a 
 brown Holland wrapper or blouse, not too 
 clean, and stained with many colours. 
 Collar and cuffs she had none ; of crinoline, 
 too, she was innocent ; in fact, she despised it, 
 as unworthy an artist, and her hands, like 
 her dress, bore traces of her favourite em- 
 ployment. There were half a dozen girls 
 around her, one or two with bright, pleasant 
 faces, and they all turned and looked curi- 
 ously at Meg, as she stood before them, 
 wondering and wide-eyed. 
 
 Mrs. Mayne surveyed her from top to toe, 
 then nodded approval.
 
 A VOTARY OF HIGH ART. 61 
 
 "You'll do, young woman. Now, the 
 question is, can you stand still ?" 
 
 "Yes, ma'am, I think so," said Meg; 
 " while you're getting the work ready for 
 me, did you mean ?" 
 
 " Pooh ! child ; the work is to stand still. 
 I want you to keep quiet, while these young 
 ladies draw from you. I shall pay you one- 
 and-sixpence an hour, and if you keep still 
 enough for the purpose, I dare say we shall 
 employ you for some time. Now, take off 
 your shawl and bonnet, let down your hair, 
 and I'll place you in position." 
 
 Meg did as directed, wondering more 
 than ever at the idea of being paid for people 
 to look at her face and copy it. Mrs. Mayne 
 made her place herself in different attitudes — 
 first standing, next kneeling, and then sitting 
 with the basket before her. That, at last, 
 was pronounced to be the best position, and 
 the young ladies placed themselves around
 
 62 MEG. 
 
 her, one drawing her full face, two in profile, 
 and the rest getting as much of her as circum- 
 stances permitted. 
 
 Meg was very quiet, and had she been a 
 lay figure in Mrs. Mayne's hands, could 
 not have submitted more passively to have 
 her head turned first on one side, then the 
 other, her arms raised or lowered, and her 
 shoulders bent forward or drawn back ; and, 
 indeed, had she been a lay figure, Mrs. 
 Mayne could not have handled her more 
 coolly, or spoken of her with less regard to 
 the effect her words might have upon the 
 object they described ; but as many of her 
 expressions were technical, Meg did not un- 
 derstand their meaning, and when all the 
 young ladies had arranged themselves, re- 
 mained as still as any model need to be. 
 
 She was occupied with her own thoughts. 
 Was this, then, the way that people made 
 pictures? And was she, Meg, to be put
 
 A VOTAKY OF HIGH ART. 63 
 
 into one, or, indeed, into half a dozen ? 
 Half a dozen likenesses of herself; and 
 would these be placed in the shop-windows 
 for people to stand and stare at, or pay 
 money for to have them as their own ! 
 "What would Joe have said if he had lived 
 to know of it ? Poor Joe ! how he would 
 have liked to have had one hanging up in 
 their room ! And then, chasing away these 
 thoughts, came the little vain flutterings that 
 come even to the girls of Swamp Town — " 
 Should she make a pretty picture ? Would 
 people be as pleased with it as she had been 
 with some she remembered? And, oh, dear ! 
 why had the lady told her to come in that 
 old dress ? Sally Smith would have lent 
 her her Sunday gown directly, especially if 
 she had known what it was wanted for. 
 Would they put in every patch in the one 
 she had on ? — and why did the short stout 
 lady make her pull her hair all down? She
 
 64 MEG. 
 
 had plaited it up so nicely tliat morning. 
 What a pity it was to make her undo it all, 
 and have it hanging in that untidy manner 
 about her shoulders. 
 
 For two hours Meg sat motionless ; and 
 then Mrs. Mayne, who had been flitting 
 from one pupil to another, advising and di- 
 recting the whole time, declared that it was 
 time to give over. Meg was sketched in, 
 and she must come the next day to have the 
 wash laid on. 
 
 Meg felt more puzzled than ever when 
 she heard her, but that day had been such 
 a day of marvels, that she took the mystery 
 of her washing as one more. Mrs. Mayne 
 gave her three shilhngs, told her to put on 
 her bonnet and shawl, and come again at 
 twelve o'clock the next day. 
 
 Still Meg lingered ; she felt a great wish 
 to see one of the pictures of herself, but 
 shrunk from saying so. One of the girls, a
 
 A VOTARY OJ^ HIGH ART. 65 
 
 brightreyed little creature, with a pleasant, 
 good-humoured face, seemed to guess her 
 wishes, saying, 
 
 "Would you like to see what I have 
 made of you ?" and pointed to her easel as 
 a sign that she might come and look. 
 
 Meg advanced towards it. Was that her ? 
 It was but an outline, but it was an outline 
 by Mrs. Mayne's best pupil, who bid fair to 
 outstrip her instructress ; and, delighting as 
 much in beautiful things as Mrs. Mayne in* 
 ugly ones, she had worked with all her 
 heart at Meg's face, and had already sha- 
 dowed forth its beauty, and the pathos and 
 the sorrow underlying it. Meg looked, and 
 looked again. Was this face hers ? — and if 
 so, why, she would make as good a picture 
 as any in the shops, and folks would be 
 ready enough to stare at her. No ! she did 
 well enough without Sally Smith's Sunday 
 gown, if she could look like that in her own 
 
 VOL. I. F
 
 66 MEG. 
 
 old one, with all its patches. Oh ! if Joe 
 could only have seen her thus ! — would not 
 he have been proud and pleased ? And with 
 the thought the big tears came welling in 
 her eyes; and the young student, Mary Nor- 
 ton, looking kindly at her, said, 
 
 " Is there anything in it that vexes you ?" 
 
 Meg gulped her sobs down with a great 
 effort. 
 
 "No — no; but I was thinking if Joe could 
 but have seen it, miss ;" and then, dashing 
 her tears away, left the room hastily. 
 
 Mary Norton looked after her pityingly. 
 
 " Poor girl ! Joe must be dead, by the 
 the way she speaks, I suppose he was her 
 brother 1"
 
 67 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 MRS. MAYNe's studio. 
 
 II TEG was punctual the next morning. 
 ^'-■- Her mother had been very well satis- 
 fied with the money she had brought home * 
 and the manner in which she had earned it. 
 ^^ It was more respectable altogether than 
 selling flowers in the streets — a thing she 
 had never thought a girl of hers would come 
 to. And, no doubt, if she pleased the lady 
 — who certainly was a lady, by the way she 
 paid Meg — she would find other work for 
 her to do. More folks might be glad to 
 copy Meg's face, and pay her for letting 
 them do it. If Meg minded what she was 
 
 f2
 
 68 MEG. 
 
 about, she would get her living like a lady, 
 and keep her poor mother like one too !" 
 
 Meg thought little of the rise in the social 
 scale which was likely to accrue to her by 
 standing to be painted from. The money 
 had been very acceptable — she had had a 
 better supper and breakfast through it than 
 she had known for a considerable time ; but 
 even that was less regarded by her than the 
 work for which she received it. " To help 
 make pictures !" It seemed to Meg almost 
 too grand a thing to be real. For there was 
 no doubt, if she stood quite still, and let the 
 young ladies paint from her face, she did 
 help, and people would look at the picture, 
 and wonder who it was, or if there had ever 
 been a girl that looked just like that. Meg 
 thought that next to painting pictures was 
 the glory of being painted in them, and took 
 more pains than ever with her hair that 
 morning, thinking that if the stout lady were
 
 MRS. mayne's studio. 69 
 
 to notice how well it looked, she might have 
 her put in the next picture with all those 
 wonderful plaits round her head. 
 
 Mrs. Mayne placed Meg in the same atti- 
 tude that she had stood in the previous day; 
 then the young ladies arranged themselves 
 around, and the work went on. They were 
 delighted with their model. As they painted, 
 the sense of all that perfect harmony in form 
 and colouring, embodied in Meg's face, grew 
 on them more and more, and she was so 
 still, and submitted so meekly to all Mrs. 
 Mayne's manipulations, and seemed so 
 simply unconscious of her own great beauty, 
 that they painted with a vigour and perse- 
 verance that was quite unusual with them. 
 An hour had gone on, when the door of the 
 studio opened, and an elderly lady, well and 
 carefully dressed, came in. 
 
 "Sit down, mamma, and keep quiet," 
 said Mrs. Mayne. "Out of the model's sight,
 
 70 MEG. 
 
 please ; I don't want the expression altered 
 through the eyes turning on you." 
 
 Mrs. Baring sat down where she could 
 have a good side view of Meg, without the 
 girl's seeing her, unless she turned her head 
 round for the purpose ; and taking up her 
 glass, surveyed her through it. She was a 
 handsome woman yet, though turned sixty. 
 Her complexion was still clear and fresh, 
 though its tones had faded, harmonising ad- 
 mirably with the grey hair which was 
 braided round her face. The features were 
 of a decided tone, but not enough so to be 
 pronounced masculine ; and if a close ob- 
 server might have detected something in the 
 keen grey eye, and set, firm mouth, to war- 
 rant him in pronouncing that, if the late Mr. 
 Baring had sinned much in his married life, 
 he had suifered a little, still their general 
 effect was sufficiently attractive. She was 
 taller than her daughter, and with just that
 
 MRS. mayne's studio. 71 
 
 amount of emhonpoini^ which is pleasant and 
 becoming in an elderly lady. Her move- 
 ments, too, unlike Mrs. Mayne's brisk jerki- 
 ness, were dignified and graceful, and her 
 dress always well-chosen and well put on. 
 Mother and daughter, indeed, were a great 
 contrast in most things. Mrs. Baring always 
 making the best of her beauty, as, indeed, 
 she did of every good thing that came in 
 her way ; while Mrs, Mayne seemed only to 
 study how to intensify her plainness to thS 
 utmost. But the unlikeness, after all, was 
 mostly on the surface — underneath, mother 
 and daughter were more akin tlian most 
 peeple imagined. 
 
 The painting went vigorously on, till Mrs. 
 Mayne pronounced it time to give over. 
 Then she left the room with her mother, 
 and the girls, before going on with their 
 other labours, gathered round the studio fire 
 to partake of lunch.
 
 72 MEG. 
 
 It had been very cold all day, and now 
 thick flakes of snow were falling fast. Meg 
 shivered as she looked wistfully up to the 
 sky-light, and thought of her thin shawl. 
 It might leave off soon — ^perhaps the ladies 
 would not be angry if she stayed a little. 
 She put on her bonnet, ready to go, and 
 then stood, shy and irresolute, looking at the 
 casts and pictures round her. The girls, 
 meanwhile, were too busy to pay any atten- 
 tion to her. This was their hour of relaxa- 
 tion — they were all a little in awe of Mrs. 
 Mayne, and still more in awe of her 
 mother, who often came into the studio ; 
 but luncheon-time was their own, and they 
 liked to make the most of it. Their hands 
 were cold, and they held them over the 
 fire ; then some produced chestnuts to roast, 
 others apples; while Mary Norton, who was 
 a girl of a daring mind, cried, " Let's chum 
 together and have some coffee!"
 
 MRS. mayne's studio. 73 
 
 Coifee ! — that would be good, if Sarah 
 would only be gracious enough to let them 
 have it ; but Sarah, Mrs. Mayne's house- 
 keeper and cook, was not always gracious. 
 Still, she had at times been prevailed on to 
 sell them some coffee and sugar, and even 
 lend them a tin pot to boil it in ; and Mary 
 Norton, as the boldest spirit of the party, 
 was deputed to try if Sarah would do so to- 
 day. Down she ran into the kitchen, while 
 the others remained behind to speculate on 
 her probable success; and presently returned, 
 beaming with victory, and carrying a tray, 
 on which was the coffee-pot and some cups 
 and saucers. Lizzy Brown, who was con- 
 sidered the most experienced in domestic 
 matters, was entrusted with the making, 
 which was a very serious operation, and in 
 which they all assisted, either by giving ad- 
 vice or by watching the boiling of the pot. 
 At last the coffee was pronoimced ready, and
 
 74 MEG. 
 
 Lizzy poured it out, each girl tendering her 
 cup in turn, as there was no table sufficiently 
 near the fire to place it on. Mary Norton 
 was the first to pronounce an opinion upon 
 it, which she did with a sigh of gratification. 
 
 " It's delicious ! Lizzy, I never did taste 
 such coffee as you make. Won't the pot 
 stand another boiling ?" 
 
 Lizzy was doubtful. The coffee, indeed, 
 was poor enough already, with a strong 
 taste of chicory, and not the slightest pre- 
 tensions to clearness. Sarah had not been 
 able to furnish any milk, so the girls took 
 an extra allowance of sugar, and sipped their 
 coffee with the air of connoisseurs endorsing 
 Mary Norton's opinion of its merits. It was 
 hot and sweet, at any rate, and there was 
 the fun of making it, and the pleasure of 
 drinking it in a very uncomfortable position, 
 and of doing what they would be sure to 
 get a lecture for, if Mrs. Mayne or her
 
 MRS. mayne's studio. 75 
 
 mother came in. They laughed and chatted 
 over it, making their little jokes, and now 
 and then using a slang expression, if the 
 truth must be told. But the slang was very 
 mild, and the jokes very innocent. Meg 
 heard them with a strange wonder. These 
 girls, the youngest of whom she felt sure 
 must be older than herself, seemed so free 
 from care, and their merriment so different 
 from any she had ever heard. She felt 
 conscious, as she listened, of a great gulf be- 
 tween herself and them. It was not her 
 wretched dress and their neat habiliments ; 
 not the sordid home she was to return to, and 
 their pleasant dwellings ; not even her own 
 ignorance and their culture — the difference 
 was deeper and broader than any of these 
 causes would account for. Could it be the 
 sorrow which lay in her own past? The 
 loss of Joe and baby? Had these girls 
 never known what trouble was, that their
 
 76 MEG. 
 
 laughter sounded so unlike her own and her 
 companions' ? Perhaps it was so ; rich 
 folks — and these must be rich, or they could 
 never spend their time in painting pictures — 
 couldn't have things go wrong with them as 
 the poor did. They had money to pay 
 doctors and nurses, and buy all that was 
 wanted when those they loved were ill. 
 They need never let them die before their 
 time, as Joe and baby had done. No, it 
 must be the trouble that made the difference 
 between these ladies and herself 
 
 Had Meg known it, the "ladies" had their 
 troubles too. Most of them were studying 
 painting, not as an accomplishment, but a 
 profession, and the expense of acquiring it 
 told heavily at times. Clothes would wear 
 out so in going to and from the school at 
 Kensington, or Mrs. Mayne's studio, and the 
 money seemed going, going, with so little 
 prospect of return. Their parents were not
 
 MRS. mayne's studio. 77 
 
 rich, and the girls would have been very 
 glad to have been earning something to 
 lighten their outlay ; and Clara Buckley's 
 father was in failing health, and Clara knew 
 that her mother was looking tremblingly 
 forward to the day when the bread-winner 
 would be taken, and wondering how long it 
 would be before all the money spent on 
 Clara would enable her at least to provide 
 for herself And Lizzy Brown had a 
 widowed mother, who was denying herself 
 accustomed luxuries, so that Lizzy might 
 have the lessons she required. Even Mary 
 Norton had her own little troubles, which 
 we need not touch upon here, though, as 
 Meg looked on her, she felt inclined to 
 wonder if, in all her life, the young lady's 
 eyes had ever shed a tear. And her own 
 had known such burning ones ! 
 
 Mary Norton was Mrs. Mayne's favourite 
 pupil and convert. She had hitherto de-
 
 78 MEG. 
 
 voted herself to flower and still-life painting, 
 whicli Mrs. Mayne contemptuously denomin- 
 ated " inane prettinesses." But Mary had 
 painted them very well, and was just be- 
 ginning to earn a few guineas now and then, 
 when, unluckily, Mrs. Mayne came in her 
 way, and persuaded her to give up her 
 flowers, and devote herself to high art. 
 Mary was possessed with the ambition of 
 being an artist, and when Mrs. Mayne as- 
 sured her that the study of the figure after 
 pre-Raphaelite fashion could alone qualify 
 her for the position, Mary was foolish 
 enough to believe her, and look scornfully 
 on the velvety mosses, the many-tinted 
 leaves, and dainty blossoms on which she 
 had hitherto wasted her time. But Mary 
 was not of the stuff of which pre-Raphaelites 
 are made ; she tliought the old man (Mrs. 
 Mayne's favourite model) hideous, and the 
 young one insufferably impertinent, and
 
 MRS. mayne's studio. 79 
 
 Boadicea a fright ; and was beginning 
 to think in earnest of returning to her 
 water-colours, and painting primroses and 
 violets again, when Mrs. Mayne brought 
 Meg before her as a model. 
 
 She was now about twenty-two, slight, 
 short, dark, pale, and piquante, with good 
 teeth, that she showed whenever she laugh- 
 ed (and that was very frequently), bright 
 eyes, and a wealth of dark hair, coiled in 
 plaits at the back of her small, well-set 
 head. Not a pretty girl exactly, but with 
 a face full of attraction of its own, and a 
 truthful, loveable, warm-hfearted girl, with a 
 great deal of the child still about her, for all 
 the two-and-twenty summers that had pass- 
 ed over her, and for all the undoubted 
 talent and artistic feeling that^ in her own 
 small way, she- possessed — a girl who could 
 certainly never paint Boadicea, .but whose 
 spring flowers gave you a breath of the
 
 80 MEG. 
 
 country and its sweet air, and made you ask 
 where you had seen just such a bank as that 
 where these were growing, and whose 
 grapes and apples made you long to have 
 them for dessert. 
 
 " Which is no wonder," Mary once said, 
 when told so. " That's just how I felt all 
 the time I was painting them — that Nonpa- 
 reil pippin, in particular ; you don't know 
 what a trial it was to keep my teeth out of 
 that !" 
 
 Mary was now drinking her coffee, and 
 eating roast chestnuts and sandwiches, when, 
 looking up, she saw Meg still standing in the 
 corner. 
 
 " Good gracious !" she exclaimed. " That 
 poor girl's not gone yet ! And how cold she 
 looks! I wonder if she'd like some coffee?" 
 
 She crossed the room, and went towards 
 Meg with her cup in her hand. 
 
 "Will you have some? You must be
 
 MRS. mayne's studio. 81 
 
 tired and faint witli waiting so long — I am 
 so sorry we didn't see you here before." 
 
 " No, thank you, miss, I'm not thirsty. 
 I wa/only waiting a bit to see if the wea- 
 ther would clear up." Meg would have 
 liked the coffee, too, but she saw that it was 
 the young lady's own cup that she had of- 
 fered her, " And if I take any she'll go with- 
 out," thought Meg ; "for she'll never drink 
 after me. But," she continued, " would you 
 mind, miss, telling me who this is meant 
 for? It's someone's head, isn't it ?" 
 
 "That— it's the bust of Bailey's Eve," 
 replied Miss Norton. " It's very beautiful, 
 isn't it ?" 
 
 She might have added that it was at her 
 entreaties Mrs. Mayne had placed it in the 
 studio. 
 
 "Bailey's Eve?" repeated Meg, looking 
 at the bust as if she could drink in its loveli- 
 ness. " Well, she's wonderful pretty — but 
 
 VOL. 1. G
 
 82 MEG. 
 
 who was Bailey, miss, and who was Eve ?" 
 
 Miss Norton looked at her. 
 
 Where did this girl come from, who had 
 never heard of Eve ? But she could hardly 
 have understood her aright, so she said, 
 
 " Bailey is the name of the sculptor, and 
 this is Eve of the Bible. Of course you have 
 read about her there ?" 
 
 Meg looked no wiser. After a little con- 
 sideration, however, she said, 
 
 " I think I've heard tell of the Bible, too. 
 They say the parson as goes about our part, 
 wants them all to read it. But there's a very 
 few as can read our way — I can't — though 
 mother could once, she says, but she's pretty 
 nigh forgot it all now." 
 
 Mary Norton's path had never brought her 
 in contact with ignorance like this before, 
 and she looked with eyes half full of horri- 
 fied surprise, half of a tender human pity, for 
 the darkened soul before her. The dark-
 
 MRS. mayne's studio. 83 
 
 ened soul ! It was there, Mary's own told 
 her so, lookmg out of those beautiful soft 
 eyes that had dwelt with such delight upon 
 the bust before her. A girl could look like that 
 on Bailey's Eve, and yet know nothing of 
 the Scripture story ! Were there not Sunday 
 schools and churches, and clergymen and 
 district visitors, and had none of these come 
 across this poor pagan ? Mary felt troubled 
 and unhappy, as if there must be guilt at 
 some one's door, when Meg was so bet 
 nighted. 
 
 Both the girls were startled by Mrs. 
 Mayne's voice in the hall, and Mary ran to 
 the others to assist in hiding the cups and 
 coffee-pot behind the screen, in a place 
 where Sarah had been told to look for them 
 when they had gone. 
 
 Meg, seeing that the snow was no longer 
 falling as fast as it had been doing, and 
 fearing, too, that Mrs. Mayne would find 
 
 g2
 
 84 MEG. 
 
 fault with her for staying, left the studio, and 
 in the hall encountered that lady and her 
 mother. Mrs. Baring looked curiously at her, 
 then said sharply — so sharply, that she put 
 Meg very much in mind of her daughter, 
 
 " What on earth do you mean by going 
 out that figure, child? You surely never 
 walk through the streets in the dress you 
 wear as a model ?" 
 
 Meg started and coloured, then said 
 timidly, 
 
 " Please, ma'am, I ain't got no other — 
 leastways they're all in pledge. I would 
 have borrowed Sally Smith's Sunday gown, 
 but the lady here said I wasn't to." 
 
 "Good gracious, Rosa, you don't mean 
 to say youVe picked up a girl out of the 
 streets ?" cried Mrs. Baring. 
 
 " What on earth does it matter, mamma, 
 where I picked her up, as long as she makes 
 a good model?" cried Mrs. Mayne, im-
 
 MRS. mayne's studio. 85 
 
 patiently. *' There, get along, child, you 
 ought to have gone an hour ago. Come at 
 twelve to-morrow, and be sure you wear the 
 very same clothes. I wouldn't have a patch 
 the less on any account !" 
 
 Mrs. Mayne walked into the dining-room, 
 leaving her mother to follow, and that lady, 
 having done so, seated herself by the fire, 
 and began discussing the hot luncheon which 
 Sarah, after some delay, had sent up. It 
 was always hot luncheon when Mrs. Baring' 
 came — she had a decided disapproval of 
 cold meat ; and Sarah, who had an equal 
 disapproval of the trouble involved in the 
 preparation of anything else, was not apt to 
 hurry herself about it. 
 
 '' Whatever made you bring such a crea- 
 ture as that in the house, Rosa ?" cried Mrs. 
 Baring, as soon as she had sipped her first 
 glass of sherry. 
 
 ^' Because she's just what I wanted for the
 
 86 MEG. 
 
 girls," said Mrs. Mayne. " Bright tones, 
 good expression, capital outlines, and a 
 wonderful depth of light and shade. When 
 I've done with her, I shall recommend her 
 to Jefferies. She's just in his line. He'll 
 take her as King Cophetua's beggar-maid, or 
 something of that kind." 
 
 "What do you know about her? — where 
 does she come from?" said Mrs. Baring, 
 helping herself to another glass of sherry. 
 "She'll steal your spoons if you don't mind." 
 
 " No, she won't, for I don't mean to give 
 her the chance. But she lives in Swamp 
 Town, if you're curious in the matter." 
 
 " Swamp Town ! The very place Maggy 
 Powitt has been trying to civilize. Work 
 in which I tell her she will never succeed. 
 She would have had a better chance amongst 
 the Hottentots, and you might as well have 
 had one in your house as this girl !" 
 
 " No, I might not, mamma. It wouldn't
 
 MRS. mayne's studio. 87 
 
 have been half such a good subject. Fancy 
 the girls painting a Hottentot !" 
 
 " Don't be absurd, Rosa, What do you 
 know of her character ?" 
 
 " Nothing — I should doubt if she's got 
 one ! Whoever heard of a girl in Swamp 
 Town having such an article ? It's her face 
 and figure that are my affair, not her moral 
 qualities or respectability." 
 
 " You're incorrigible, Rosa ! As likely as 
 not she has a baby ! " * 
 
 " Shouldn't wonder, now you mention it. 
 I'll ask her to-morrow. The girls in Swamp 
 Town generally do have babies. If it takes 
 after its mother, it may prove very useful. 
 Harley deals in babies. He might be glad 
 to have her and the child together. She 
 would do famously for a gipsy mother, or a 
 cottage housewife." 
 
 "But you mustn't recommend her to 
 Harley, or Jeiferies either. She may have
 
 88 MEG. 
 
 the baby, but it by no means follows that 
 she has a husband." 
 
 " She's much better without one. He'd 
 take all her earnings to get drunk on, and 
 leave her nothing for herself" 
 
 Mrs. Baring's attempt to impress her 
 daughter with some idea of the convention- 
 alities of life were interrupted by the entrance 
 of the housemaid, who informed her mistress 
 that Mr. Jessop had called, and was waiting 
 in the drawing-room. 
 
 " Mr. Jessop !" cried Mrs. Mayne ; " he's 
 safe to keep prosing for an hour. Do go 
 in the studio, mother, and make yourself use- 
 ful by keeping those girls to their work. 
 They can do very well without me for a 
 time, if you'll look after them. Take away 
 lunch," she added to the servant, "and show 
 Mr. Jessop in here." 
 
 Mr. Jessop was an old friend of Mr. 
 Mayne's, and had been left executor of his
 
 MRS. mayne's studio. 89 
 
 will. He was a staid, precise man, of about 
 fifty, who discharged his duties in the man- 
 agement of Mrs. Mayne's affairs, most con- 
 scientiously, as a duty he owed to his de- 
 parted friend. The lady's own proceedings 
 were a source of serious uneasiness to him, 
 she was so completely opposed to all his 
 ideas of what a lady should be ; and it was 
 the standing wonder of his life that his late 
 friend Mayne should ever have married her. 
 But let her be as eccentric and erratic as 
 she might, still she was the widow of that 
 friend, and as such it behoved him to pro- 
 tect her, if need be, even against herself. 
 And it was with a view to rendering this 
 protection that Mr. Jessop had called this 
 morning. 
 
 Some time since Mrs. Mayne had thought 
 proper to take a step which Mr. Jessop in 
 his heart considered in the highest degree 
 indecorous and imprudent on the part of a
 
 90 MEG. 
 
 widow lady, and tliis was to receive a gen- 
 tleman into her house as a lodger. After 
 her husband's death she had found her resi- 
 dence inconveniently large, but she did not 
 like moving — besides, where should she get 
 such another studio ? and therefore it oc- 
 curred to her that if she could meet with an 
 inmate, who would rent some of the upper 
 rooms, it would be a comfortable and eco- 
 nomical arrangement. 
 
 Mr. Jessop suggested that she should 
 have her mother to reside with her ; but 
 then, as Mrs. Mayne put it to him, what 
 was the use of that ? Her mother could 
 not pay anything for the accommodation ; 
 and besides, she and her mother never 
 agreed well together — they were both too 
 fond of having their own way, so that that 
 arrangement would not suit at all. After a 
 while a Mr. Wilde was introduced to her, 
 and as he was represented to be a man of
 
 MRS. mayne's studio. 91 
 
 good property and respectable connexions, 
 Mrs. Mayne thought herself very fortunate 
 in securing him as an inmate. 
 
 Mr. Jessop again entreated her to have 
 Mrs. Baring to reside with her. He had 
 great faith in that lady ; she dressed so well, 
 and was always so strict in her regard for the 
 proprieties. But Mrs. Mayne flatly refused 
 to do so. 
 
 " I'm quite able to take care of myself," 
 she told Mr. Jessop ; " and I don't mean to 
 quarrel with mamma if I can help it, which 
 I shall be sure to do if she comes to live 
 with me. Besides, as far as the propriety 
 of the thing is concerned, she'd be of no 
 use. She's much the best-looking of the 
 two, so if Mr. Wilde's inclined to fall in 
 love, he'll be far more likely to do it with 
 her than with me." 
 
 So Mr. Wilde came to Courtmain Street, 
 but the arrangement had not in all respects
 
 92 MEG. 
 
 proved so satisfactory as Mrs. Mayne had 
 anticipated. Mr. Wilde was not so regular 
 either in his hours or his payments as could 
 be wished ; and she was beginning to think 
 of giving him notice, when she found Mr. 
 Jessop had called to advise her to do so, 
 moved thereto by sundry reports which had 
 reached him as to Mr. Wilde's character. 
 
 He had ascertained that he was not a 
 bachelor, as he had professed to be, but a 
 married man, who had left his native town — 
 and Mr. Jessop hardly knew how to bring 
 himself to say as much to a lady — in com- 
 pany with some one who was not his wife. 
 And he had refused to return to his home 
 and his marital obligations, and had alto- 
 gether so comported himself, as to be any- 
 thing but a desirable inmate for the home of 
 a widow lady. All this Mr. Jessop told as 
 delicately as he could well do it — he felt 
 the awkwardness of having such a commu-
 
 MRS. mayne's studio. 93 
 
 nication to make to a lady, and was very 
 glad when he had come to the end of his 
 tale ; though even then he sat folding his 
 hands a little nervously, and looking and 
 feeling embarrassed by the duty he had taken 
 on himself 
 
 But Mrs. Mayne was not at all embar- 
 rassed. It might be a very unpleasant thing 
 for Mr. Wilde's wife that he had behaved 
 as he had done ; but she could not see how 
 his doing so affected her. She had her own 
 ground of complaint against him, quite apart 
 from the propriety of his conduct in his 
 matrimonial relations, and startled Mr. Jes- 
 sop by letting him see what she thought 
 the most serious part of the matter, by say- 
 ing, when he had concluded, " But the worst 
 of it is, he don't pay !" 
 
 Was that the worst, Mr. Jessop thought ? — 
 whatever had his friend Mayne been think- 
 ing of to marry a woman so lost to every
 
 94 MEG. 
 
 right and delicate feeling, as to think the 
 very worst thing a married man could do 
 was to be behindhand in his payments ? 
 He sat looking at her in amazement — Mrs. 
 Mayne appeared to think so little of all Mr. 
 Wilde's infractions of the moral code, com- 
 pared with his shortcomings in pecuniary 
 matters. But Mr. Jessop had not come there 
 with no other purpose than to inform Mrs. 
 Mayne of her present lodger's delinquen- 
 cies — he knew very well that if Mr. Wilde 
 went, she would have another in his place 
 as soon as she could obtain one, and a friend 
 of his own having intimated a wish for a 
 set of apartments such as Mrs. Mayne would 
 have to spare, if Mr. Wilde vacated her 
 rooms, he felt it would be a desirable thing 
 for both parties could he bring them to- 
 gether. Not that he approved by any means 
 of Mrs. Mayne having a gentleman as an 
 inmate ; but, still, if she looidd have one,
 
 MRS. mayne's studio. 95 
 
 why, Mr. Ensdell appeared to him the very 
 man, as he had known him too long to have 
 any doubt as to his solvency and respecta- 
 bility ; only being, like Mrs. Mayne, an 
 artist, he would require the studio. The 
 question was whether she would give it up — 
 Mr. Jessop himself was in hopes she would. 
 He did not like the school of female pupils, 
 and he had heard very dreadful things of 
 the general scope of Mrs. Mayne's teaching ; 
 and he considered the whole affair beneath 
 her, and unworthy the memory of his late 
 friend, who had left her so well provided 
 for. What did she want with a school, as 
 he asked her now — very timidly, however, 
 for he was a good deal afraid of Mrs. Mayne 
 — and why should she continue to paint, 
 herself, while she could live without it? 
 Or, if she must paint, couldn't she do it in a 
 quiet, lady-like manner, in her own sitting- 
 room, and let the studio to Mr. Ensdell, who
 
 96 MEG. 
 
 was willing to pay thirty pounds a year for 
 it — a great deal more, in Mr. Jessop's 
 opinion, than Mrs. Ma}iie would ever make 
 by her pictures. 
 
 Mrs. Mayne heard his proposal with more 
 patience than he had expected of her. She 
 was getting a little, just a little, tired of the 
 school. The girls were very tiresome at 
 times — she despaired sometimes of even 
 making Mary Norton adopt her own views 
 of high art ; and thirty pounds a year, com- 
 fortable as her income was, would be a 
 satisfactory addition to it ; while the dining- 
 room might for the future suffice for her to 
 paint in. She told Mr. Jessop she would 
 take his proposal into consideration, and let 
 him know her answer the next day, if he 
 would only undertake to relieve her from 
 Mr. Wilde, which Mr. Jessop promised he 
 would endeavour to do. And then he took 
 his leave, congratulating himself on having
 
 MRS. mayne's studio. 97 
 
 for once performed his duty to his friend's 
 widow, with some satisfaction both to him- 
 self and to her. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 98 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 sakah's child. 
 
 TUNE. The dull cold spring has passed 
 ^ away, and summer in all its glow and 
 warmth pervades the land. A summer worth 
 the name ; not the lukewarm, dull, drizzling 
 imitation we have had in these late years. 
 Just a summer for the country, and out-door 
 life ; a summer to sit in the shade at noon- 
 day, and watch the dragon-flies flitting past, 
 to drink in the sweet smell of new-mown 
 hay and roses. A summer wlien, to those 
 who come from town, every breath is a de- 
 light, every sight and sound a pleasure; when 
 the evening is the only time for walking.
 
 Sarah's child. 99 . 
 
 and we loiter till the dews are falling, and 
 the moon is high, through field paths, or nar- 
 row lanes, making the most of the pleasant 
 time of coolness that comes to us after the 
 heat and the glare of the day.' 
 
 June — one of its brightest and sunniest 
 afternoons. The sunshine falls upon a man- 
 sion in Homeshire, about fifteen miles from 
 town. It must have been built about the 
 time of Queen Anne, and has a solid look of 
 unmistakable comfort and respectability per- 
 vading it. Not so large as to require an im- 
 mense income, or an army of servants to 
 keep it up — a place that may well be sup- 
 ported by a couple of thousands a year, and 
 that can be kept in order, both inside and 
 out, by a small number of efficient domestics. 
 It lies about twenty yards from the high- 
 road, which, indeed, is so narrow, as hardly 
 here to deserve the name. On the further 
 side of the road is a meadow, fenced off by 
 
 h2
 
 100 MEG. 
 
 a slight iron railing, so slight that it can 
 hardly be seen from the house ; some fine 
 old trees stand here, and under their shade 
 two or three Alderney cows, evidently select- 
 ed as much for their beauty as their produce, 
 are grazing peaceably. Just before the 
 house the ground is laid in grass, which is 
 now so high that the old trees at the side 
 are standing knee-deep in it; and through 
 this a broad carriage-path leads up to the man- 
 sion, from two large white gates that open 
 on to it. The fence before the house is as 
 slight as the one on the further side of the 
 road, so that from the windows you appear to 
 look on a small park, losing sight altogether 
 of the road that passes between the field and 
 grounds. 
 
 At the back of the house are the flower 
 gardens, and beyond these are the orchard, 
 &c., and beyond these again, and on either 
 side, about thirty acres of rich meadow land.
 
 Sarah's child. 101 
 
 A snug little domain on the whole, a place 
 wherein a man might sit down contentedly 
 enough to end his days, and enjoy the good 
 things with which Providence had surround- 
 ed him — fresj). air, green fields, old trees, 
 fertile garden, and a home replete with all 
 the comfort and luxuries of an English 
 gentleman's household. Truly, a man 
 would have much to be grateful for who 
 had all these. 
 
 Was he grateful, the possessor of all these 
 good things, as he sat by one of the win- 
 dows of his study, looking out on the 
 grounds before him? He should have 
 been ; he had known what it was once to 
 want them all, and they had come to him 
 without much effort on his part, and with 
 even less deserving — come to him, too, at a 
 time when he had thought all hope of such 
 good fortune accruing to him was over, and 
 that between himself and the respectable
 
 102 MEG. 
 
 and well-to-do folks wlio lived in good 
 houses, paid tlieir way, and were well spoken 
 of by all, was a gulf so broad, no effort of 
 liis could ever bridge it over. 
 
 For lie had not always been Maurice 
 Stanton, Esq., with a balance at his banker's, 
 a well-hung carriage, high-stepping horses, 
 and a family pew in church. He had been 
 somewhat of a Bohemian in his time, and 
 had done things, gentleman's son though he 
 was, from which many a born Bohemian 
 would have shrunk. But he had seen the 
 error of his ways, and turned from them 
 when it had been profitable to do so, and 
 ever since that time had worn fine linen, 
 and fared sumptuously. There was no oc- 
 casion for virtue to be its own reward in 
 Mr. Maurice Stanton's case, when tliere was 
 a rich uncle ready and willing to reward 
 him with the heirship of his goods, if he 
 would but turn from his erratic course, and
 
 Sarah's child. 103 
 
 marry the well-portioned young lady he had 
 selected for liim. 
 
 Mr. Maurice Stanton had had to make 
 one or two sacrifices to meet his uncle's 
 wishes — sacrifices that other men might 
 have hesitated to make, or, if they had been 
 led by self-interest to do so, would have had 
 troubled dreams all their life after. But 
 Mr. Maurice Stanton was untroubled by 
 nerves or sensitive feelings. Of all the 
 world, the one person to whom he con- 
 sidered he owed a duty was himself, and 
 having performed that duty according to 
 his lights, he was not the man to let any 
 over-refined scruples disturb him. There had 
 been a woman to put out of his path, and a 
 child to send from him ; but the woman 
 was not one in his o^vn sphere, and the 
 child was illegitimate. A couple of hun- 
 dred pounds, and the trinkets and clothes 
 he had given her, were sufficient provision
 
 104 MEG. 
 
 for the one ; and as to the other, it was 
 better with its mother than with him. 
 What could he do with the little waif? — 
 he who was hoping to have lawful heirs 
 born to him, to inherit the wealth his 
 uncle was to bequeath and his wife bring 
 to him? Besides, it would be cruel to 
 rob the woman of her child. She was 
 a low, vulgar creature, with nothing to 
 recommend her but the coarse red and 
 white beauty that had caught his eye, and 
 might serve to catch others ; but she was 
 fond of the little thing, so let her keep it. 
 He was not the man to take it from her. 
 So he had salved his conscience, and cheated 
 himself into the belief that in performing 
 the part of a villain he was acting as a gen- 
 tleman should, and a gentleman, too, of a 
 tender heart and a compassionate spirit ; had 
 married the little, plain, unhealthy heiress, 
 and two years after inherited all his imcle's
 
 Sarah's child. 105 
 
 belongings, and in his turn reigned at the 
 Oaks. 
 
 His wife bore him one child, a daughter, 
 within a year after marriage. When the 
 little one was eight years old, she left her 
 motherless ; and as Mr. Stanton never mar- 
 ried again, Nelly was looked upon as her 
 father's heiress. He might have easily found 
 another mistress for the Oaks, but he would 
 give Nelly no rival in her home. He had 
 grown to love this child with the one love 
 of a cold, selfish, narrow soul. He had 
 liked his wife indiiFerently — just enough to 
 make living with her endurable, but he had 
 never loved a woman, or known a friend in 
 all his life. He had sinned in his youth, and 
 without the excuse of passion he had led a 
 disreputable life, and associated with question- 
 able companions, because it so pleased him 
 for the time ; and when it pleased him better 
 to turn from these unprofitable ways, he had
 
 106 MEG. 
 
 done so without one shadow of regret af 
 leaving those who, let their social sins have 
 been what they might, had before now shared 
 their last sovereign with him in his need. He 
 dropped them all when it pleased him to be- 
 come respectable, as coolly as he did the fast 
 garments he had worn in his earlier career. 
 Neither suited him now, and it cost him no 
 greater effort to throw off one than the other. 
 But he cared for his child. This child at 
 least. What had become of the other — a 
 daughter, too — he never troubled to inquire ; 
 it might have been smothered by its mother 
 in a drunken sleep — women in her class do 
 such things at times ; run over when playing 
 in the gutter, poisoned by dirt, foul smells, 
 bad food; or, if living still, have become one 
 of the nameless outcasts of the London streets, 
 for aught he cared. It had been a dark- 
 eyed infant of three months old when last he 
 saw it ; and he had never cared for babies
 
 Sarah's child. 107 
 
 '^ — besides, what claim could this one have 
 on him, that the two hundred pounds he had 
 given its mother would not amply cover ? 
 He had done his part so far — it was for the 
 woman who bore it to see to the rest. Child 
 and mother had been put from him with the 
 things of his past life. It was rarely, indeed, 
 that they ever crossed his memory now. 
 What had they to do with all his present 
 trim respectabilities ? He had put the sins 
 of his youth far from him ; why should he be 
 disturbed with the recollection of those as- 
 sociated with such sins ? He had his daugh- 
 ter and heiress to care for now — Miss Stan- 
 ton of the Oaks — Sarah's child, to delight and 
 take pride in. Let Hagar and her offspring 
 go their way. And it mattered little to him 
 that for such as his Hagar angels rarely come 
 to help them on the road. 
 
 This child was the embodiment of his re- 
 spectability. Her birth had been recorded in
 
 108 MEG. 
 
 the Times ^ and the Morning Post, the Milford 
 Observer, and the Homeshire News. Silver 
 mugs had been presented at her christening, 
 and the relations on either side looked elate 
 and triumphant at the tiny morsel in its low 
 robe and cap. Nurses and governesses had 
 done their best to guard and train her. 
 Masters had been employed to complete the 
 work ; and now, though not seventeen, 
 Eleanor Stanton was not only the belle of 
 Summerly, but regarded as a young lady 
 of as good promise and expectations as any 
 in Homeshire. 
 
 Her father had laid down his book, and 
 was looking on her now as she sat under 
 one of the old trees, her pet cat, a black and 
 white dainty little creature, whom her mis- 
 tress had christened Titania, on her lap, a 
 book by her side which she had thrown down, 
 and a basket of strawberries, which she was 
 leisurely eating, in her hand. A pretty girl,
 
 Sarah's child. 109 
 
 there was no question of that, with brown 
 waving hair, which, when the sun shone on 
 it, had a golden gleam ; large dark grey eyes, 
 eyes that sparkled, and shone, and danced, 
 and laughed with every changing mood of 
 their owner; a daintily-moulded, dimpled 
 chin, exquisite little ears — ^the careless way in 
 which the hair was thrust behind them showed 
 their beauty now — and ripe red rosy lips, 
 that, whenever they laughed, and that was 
 persistently, had an unconquerable habit of 
 showing the whitest and prettiest teeth in 
 the world. Still, rosy and laughing as the 
 lips and pearly as the teeth were, the mouth 
 was the fault of the face. It was too large, 
 and when in repose there was a firm set ex- 
 pression, which told something for the young 
 lady's force of character. 
 
 Eleanor Stanton had a will of her own, 
 as most people who knew anything of her 
 were aware already ; and though that will, as
 
 110 MEG. 
 
 yet, was only exercised on small matters, 
 still there was the latent force ready to spring 
 into action whenever circumstances called 
 forth its full energies. 
 
 A girl with a will of her own, there was 
 no question about that, as her father knew. 
 Once or twice that will had come into col- 
 lision with his own, and it had conquered. 
 They were small matters, as I said, and Mr. 
 Stanton had thought it best to yield ; but 
 something told him that if ever a time came 
 when his will should be opposed to his 
 daughter's in greater things, he would have 
 to ^deld too. He half blamed himself; he 
 had spoiled her so thoroughly, what else 
 could he expect from her ? There would be 
 nothing for it now but to give her her way 
 to the end, treat her like a petted child, 
 and keep out of her sight whatever it was 
 not expedient she should have. But Mr. 
 Stanton did not do his daughter quite justice.
 
 sakah's child. Ill 
 
 Spoiled and petted she certainly had been 
 beyond all reasonable bounds, but the wilful- 
 ness was by no means that of a child, and 
 would have been there all the same had she 
 been curbed and checked and snubbed and 
 kept under, according to the good old-fash- 
 ioned plan of training youth in the days of 
 our forefathers. 
 
 Only the wilfulness might have become 
 sheer obstinacy, and the outspoken truthful- 
 ness have been warped into something very 
 different. On the whole, Eleanor Stanton 
 was not much the worse for all her spoiling. 
 Her nature, like her complexion, could 
 stand a great deal of sunshine, and thrive 
 and bloom the better for it. 
 
 Eleanor finished her strawberries, and 
 taking the cat in her arms, ran towards the 
 study ; then she seated herself just outside 
 the window, so as to be able to chat com- 
 fortably with her father, and addressed him:
 
 112 MEG. 
 
 " Now, papa, did the afternoon post bring 
 you any news? I know you've had three 
 letters, for I counted them myself." 
 
 " Well, Nelly, one of them concerns you, 
 at any rate. Mrs. Winthrop will be really 
 here to-day. She will reach Summerly 
 Station at half-past five, and I have just told 
 Jones to take the carriage down to the sta- 
 tion for her." 
 
 " Oh ! papa, you have taken my breath 
 away. Dear me ! just as I thought govern- 
 esses and everything of that kind were done 
 with for ever ! Now, what on earth am I 
 to do with Mrs. Winthrop when she comes, 
 and what on earth is she expected to do 
 with me ? " And Nelly cuddled her cat and 
 looked up at her father, as if defying him to 
 answer her question. 
 
 " Don't be absurd, Nelly. A girl of your 
 age, with no mother, wants a chaperon, as a 
 matter of course."
 
 sakah's child. 113 
 
 "No, I don't, papa — you're quite mis- 
 taken — I don't want one at all," said Nelly, 
 demurely, twisting Titania's whiskers round ■ 
 her fingers. 
 
 " Allow me to be the best judge of your 
 wants in this matter," said Mr. Stanton, 
 rather crossly. " At your age, and in your 
 position, it is necessary to have some regard 
 to the proprieties of life ; and a chaperon to 
 accompany you into society, and, in fact, on 
 all occasions whenever you go out, is indis- 
 pensable." 
 
 " Whenever I go out !" repeated Nelly, 
 solemnly. " Then I hope, for her own sake, 
 Mrs. Winthrop wears thick boots, and has 
 some notion of climbing stiles, or I'm afraid 
 I shall be a trouble to her. It'll be awk- 
 ward if she's an old lady, for my walks 
 somehow seem to lead me over all the stiles 
 in the country. Or won't it satisfy the pro- 
 prieties, papa, if we come to ome that's quite 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 114 MEG. 
 
 insurmountable, and she sits down on one 
 side of it, while I run along with Floss on 
 the other '? And there's another thing, papa 
 — now, is she troubled with corns ?" 
 
 "Eleanor!" Mr. Stanton tried to look 
 sternly on the laughing face upturned to his, 
 a thing which, as Eleanor knew very well, 
 he always found it impossible to succeed in, 
 " do try and behave like a rational being for 
 once." Eleanor looked gravity itself, and 
 began metamorphosing her cat into an im- 
 aginary likeness of her expected duenna, by 
 tying her handkerchief round her head. 
 "Mrs. Winthrop is a lady — poor, perhaps, 
 or she would never undertake the charge of 
 a troublesome girl like you. She has lost 
 her husband, and seen some trouble in her 
 life. Now, I'm sure you've good feeling 
 enough not to make things needlessly un- 
 pleasant for her." 
 
 Nelly looked grave in earnest now. Mrs.
 
 Sarah's child. 115 
 
 Winthrop was poor, and had known trouble 
 — and, after all, a duenna's life must be a 
 very dull one. No one, as her father had 
 hinted, would lead it from choice. It was 
 a great bore, of course, to have such an in- 
 fliction ; but, after all, the poor infliction 
 couldn't help herself, and might be deserving 
 of some pity too. She would try and be 
 good to her, and not exasperate her more 
 than she could help. A little exasperation 
 Nelly feared she would have to put up with, 
 but it should not be very much. She 
 twitched her handkerchief off Titania's head, 
 turned that long-suffering animal adrift, and 
 sprang into the study through the window. 
 
 " I dare say we shall get on, papa, very 
 well, after the first. I won't be worse than 
 I can help. Only you know it's in the 
 nature of things that I should look upon 
 Mrs. Winthrop as a nuisance ; but I'll try and 
 not let her find out that I do. There, give 
 
 t2
 
 116 MEG. 
 
 me a kiss, and 111 go in the garden myself 
 and gather some flowers for her room !" 
 
 She took her fathers head between her 
 hands, and looked down laughingly upon 
 his face — a face that was still handsome, 
 though five-and-fifty autumns had passed 
 over it, and though the skin was seamed 
 with wrinkles like an older man's. Mr. 
 Stanton had lived too fast in his time to wear 
 well. The moustache and beard were griz- 
 zled, and the hair was thin and grey. It 
 was a cold, hard face, unless when it looked 
 on Nelly. 
 
 She bent down her soft, rounded cheek 
 for a kiss, and then ran out of the room to 
 gather her flowers. Presently her father 
 heard her voice carolling away in the gar- 
 den at the back of the house, and crossed 
 the room to a window which opened on it. 
 He sat down to look at Nelly flitting 
 amongst the flower-beds — to look at Nelly,
 
 SAKAHS CHILD. 117 
 
 the very idol of his eyes and of his heart. 
 Well, she was worth the looking at as she 
 stood in the bright garden, with the sun- 
 shine resting on her — the very type of in- 
 nocent, happy girlhood, shrined in her 
 home, guarded by loving care, kept not only 
 from the winds that might blow too roughly 
 on her, but almost from the very know- 
 ledge that there were such winds at all — a 
 girl who in her happiness seemed almosj 
 sacred — a creature who could know nothing 
 of the coarse words, the evil ways, the dark 
 things of the world, whose greatest care 
 might be the purchase of a dress, whose 
 heaviest grief the loss of a pet. Her very 
 beauty was so bright and joyous in its tone, 
 that it seemed as if the wearer of such a 
 face was not to know the cares that trouble 
 others. It harmonized with the gladness of 
 the day, the sweetness of the air, the brilli- 
 ancy of the flowers, with her dress so sim-
 
 118 MEG. 
 
 pie, yet so dainty — so evidently that of a 
 rich man's child, with the pleasant home, 
 and the soft English scenery spreading far 
 around ; but with sorrow, or shame, or 
 care, what could that bright face have to 
 do? Nothing, her father thought, as he 
 looked on her. It was sunshine all around 
 his Nelly — sunshine for ever within and 
 without, if he could have it so ; and the 
 shade — let it fall where it would, so that it 
 never rested upon her.
 
 119 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 MRS. MAYNe's new LODGER. 
 
 II /TRS. MAYNE gratified Mr. Jessop by 
 -^*-*- consenting to give up the studio, and 
 receive Mr. Ensdell into her home. With 
 a little trouble, and some loss of rent, Mr. 
 Wilde was got rid of, and then Mr. Ensdell 
 moved in. He made the studio assume a 
 very different appearance to what it had 
 done either in Mr. Mayne's time, or when 
 his wife alone had taught high art in it. 
 There was carved oak furniture now — if not 
 Elizabethan, a very fair imitation of it — 
 old china, bronzes, crimson draperies, and 
 armour. Altogether, the confusion in the 
 studio was very picturesque and artistic in-
 
 120 MEG. 
 
 deed, but it was very clear that Mr. Ens- 
 dell's predilections were not of the Pre-Ra- 
 phaelite order. There w^as a prettiness in 
 all he did, and he liked pretty things about 
 him ; but, as Mrs. Mayne said, when she 
 had known him two days, " he was not of 
 the stuff of wliich artists are made " — nor 
 true workers in anything, she might have 
 added ; he was always beginning, never 
 completing. Now it was the model who 
 was in fault, then the colours. Where did 
 those old painters get their pigments from ? 
 he would ask indignantly ; and how was it 
 possible to rival them, when the colourmen 
 did their work so shamefully ? 
 
 Fortunately for him, he could afford to 
 take life easily, and treat art as a toy — not 
 the worst toy, perhaps, that he might have 
 chosen, but still nothing more. He believed 
 himself capable of great things, if it once 
 pleased him to execute them.
 
 MRS. MAYNe's new LODGER. 121 
 
 " If I had but had to work for my living, 
 I should have been R.A. by this time," 
 he would sometimes say ; " but my maternal 
 grandmother spoilt me for a painter when 
 she so considerately left me those snug little 
 investments in the Three per Cents. Some 
 day I shall marry, and then there will be 
 the necessity of working for my nursery — if 
 I can only meet with a woman worth the 
 bore of going through the marriage ceremony 
 with. Or, without committing myself so 
 irretrievably, I might do something if fate 
 would only send me such a model as she 
 sometimes favoured the old painters with. 
 By Jove ! to think of Titian's daughter or 
 Raphael's Fornarina ! No wonder those 
 men painted as they did, with such faces 
 always before them !" 
 
 However, if not a good painter, Mr. Ens- 
 dell was a model lodger. He gave very 
 little trouble, and paid liberally and punc-
 
 122 MEG. 
 
 tually. He was very civil to Mrs. Mayne, 
 and took lier lectures on high art and his 
 own inefficiency in good part. In truth, she 
 amused him, as long as he did not see too 
 much of her ; and sometimes he was very 
 glad to be amused, as most men are who 
 have no aim or purpose in their life ; and 
 with Mrs. Baring he was courtliness itself. 
 The handsome, clever old lady suited him 
 admirably. She could talk so much and 
 talk so well when it pleased her, that, as 
 Mr. Ensdell said to Mrs. Mayne, " She is as 
 good as a book, without the trouble of turn- 
 ing the page." 
 
 And Mrs. Mayne replied, 
 
 "Yes, mamma's capital company when 
 she don't put out her claws." 
 
 Mr. Ensdell was about six and thirty, 
 tall and slight, and with an air and manner 
 much younger than his years. Studiously 
 dressed, especially in his studio, when he
 
 MES. MAYNe's new LODGER. 123 
 
 wished at least to look the artist, and de- 
 lighted in a black velvet suit and careless 
 necktie. How much care that apparent 
 carelessness cost him! His light chestnut 
 hair was elaborately curled, his forehead 
 fairly high and broad, the eyes small, with 
 an easy, selfish good-humour in them — 
 an expression confirmed by the thin lips, 
 on which a self-complacent smile was almost 
 habitual. None skilled in character woul4 
 have expected much of self-sacrifice or ge- 
 nerous feeling from a man with such a 
 mouth as that. Easy, good-natured, fairly 
 liberal when funds were plentiful, and good- 
 tempered when all things were as he would 
 have them, its owner might be ; but of any 
 noble purpose, any serious aim, utterly inca- 
 pable. It was the mouth of a lounger about 
 town — of a dilettante^ trifling his life away in 
 small aims and smaller ends, but never of 
 an artist or of a true worker.
 
 124 MEG. 
 
 Meg had gone occasionally to Mrs. 
 Mayne's since Mr. Ensdell's arrival there. 
 Mary Norton, and one or two of tlie other 
 girls, were anxious to complete their paint- 
 ing of her. So the back dining-room, which 
 had a very good light, was fitted up as a 
 studio, and there Meg sat to tliem. Mary 
 Norton worked hard at her picture, and 
 when finished, Meg was allowed to look at 
 it. The mere outline had startled here, but 
 this did so far more. She flushed scarlet 
 with the thought, 
 
 " And am I like ^Aar^" 
 
 It was such a revelation of her own beauty 
 to the girl as her scrap of glass liad never 
 given her. Why, she must be as well worth 
 looking at, after all, as even Eve, when she 
 had all the light and colour of life around 
 her. 
 
 The likeness was wonderfully caught. 
 Mary Norton had been in love with her sub-
 
 MRS. MAYNe's new LODGER. 125 
 
 ject, and idealized it a little. The expression 
 she had given the eyes was not the dreamy 
 look they habitually wore, but the rapt 
 glance with which they had rested upon 
 Bailey's Eve. Mary Norton never forgot that 
 look and unconsciously had portrayed it. 
 Mrs. Baring found fault with her for doing 
 so. 
 
 " I don't say you've flattered her — as far 
 as mere prettiness goes, the girl is well 
 enough. But you've given her the face of 
 a Sibyl. Who ever saw a flower-girl with 
 such eyes as those?" 
 
 Having finished her picture, Mary Norton 
 said she should have it framed, and hung up 
 in her own room. 
 
 " I don't say it's well done, Mrs. Mayne," 
 she said ; to which Mrs. Mayne frankly re- 
 plied — 
 
 "Neither do I!" 
 " But," continued Mary, " I like the face — I
 
 126 MEG. 
 
 could look at it for ever — and I'm not sorry 
 for the time I've taken over it ; but I shall 
 give up high art after tliis, and stick to my 
 flowers." 
 
 *^Then you're like all the girls I've ever 
 had to deal with," said Mrs. Mayne. " Not 
 worth the pains I've taken with you ? I did 
 think you'd have found something better to 
 do with your life, than waste it on birds'- 
 nests and buttercups. Half the women that 
 are born have no minds, and nine-tenths of 
 the others don't know how to use them. 
 You've just taken a fancy to paint that girl, 
 because her face pleased you, and though 
 the drawing's defective, the lights weak, and 
 the general effect washy and sketchy, it's not 
 so badly done on the whole — there's promise 
 in it. If you'd persevere with Dobbs or 
 Marshall, who are ten times better practice, 
 you'd do something in time, and might call 
 yourself an artist ten or twelve years hence
 
 MRS. mayne's new lodger. 127 
 
 — ^which is what you never will be, if you 
 go on painting geraniums and dead robins 
 for ever." 
 
 But Mary could not be induced to give 
 up any more of her time to the prosecution 
 of high art. She wanted new dresses, she 
 told Mrs. Mayne frankly, and had been of- 
 fered twenty guineas by a picture collector 
 for a couple of water-colour paintings of 
 spring flowers. Mrs. Mayne suggested brown 
 holland wrappers like her own, but Mary 
 preferred silk or muslin. Mrs. Mayne 
 said she gave her up in disgust — she was the 
 greatest disappointment she had ever had, 
 and she would have no more to do with girls 
 for the future. Then Mary Norton went her 
 way, and Mrs. Mayne sat down to soothe 
 her ruflled feelings by giving a few finishing 
 touches to Boadicea, 
 
 She painted till the light began to fade, 
 and had just risen from before her easel,
 
 128 MEG. 
 
 when she heard a knock at the door, and 
 Mr. Ensd ell's voice without. 
 
 "May I come in, Mrs. Mayne? — I've 
 brought you the Tiniest 
 
 It was a daily civility of Mr. Ensdell's to 
 lend Mrs. Mayne the Times. He took it in 
 regularly, and generally sent it to her in the 
 evening. He was just going out now to one 
 of the theatres, and had brought it to her 
 himself, as he passed her door. He entered 
 the room as soon as Mrs. Mayne had given 
 him permission to do so, and she bade him 
 come and look at the progress she had made 
 with Boadicea. 
 
 "Though the light is going fast, still I 
 think you may see how I've stippled up the 
 herbage she's treading on. Throws up the 
 foot wonderfully, don't it ? And I've thrown 
 more shadow on the leaves in the back- 
 ground." 
 
 Mr. Ensdell praised, as he was expected
 
 MRS. MAYNe's new LODGER. 129 
 
 to do, the stippling of the herbage, and the 
 throwing up of Boadicea's foot — he was a 
 man who found it very easy to praise ; then 
 his eyes fell on Mary Norton's picture. 
 
 " By Jove ! Mrs. Mayne, where did you 
 get that girl from ?" 
 
 " I found her selling flowers in the streets, 
 and brought her home for the girls to paint. 
 She's pretty, for those who like that style ; 
 but it's not a face I should care myself for. 
 I thought of recommending her to Stubbs 
 and JefFeries." 
 
 " Don't, my dear lady, don't ! Let me 
 have the monopoly of that face — at least for 
 a time. Where did you say she was to be 
 found?" 
 
 *'At the corners of the streets, selling 
 flowers, half her time," said Mrs. Mayne. 
 '^ She'll be here to-morrow. I thought of 
 giving her a note to take to JefFeries. Shall 
 I send her to you instead ?" 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 130 MEG. 
 
 "You'll oblige me infinitely! Good 
 heavens ! such a face to be met with at the 
 corners of the streets ; and all my life I've 
 been looking in vain for a model worth the 
 painting ! One ought to do something with 
 such a subject as that before one." 
 
 " Yes, if one's got the something in one's 
 self," replied Mrs. Mayne. " But it wants an 
 artist as well as a subject to make a good 
 picture, Mr. Ensdell." 
 
 Mr. Ensdell felt himself snubbed, and took 
 his snubbing meekly. He was quite aware 
 that he was not Mrs. Mayne's ideal of an 
 artist, and the knowledge did not distress 
 him very greatly. He took out his eye- 
 glass, and scrutinized the painting carefully. 
 It had all the faults which Mrs. Mayne had 
 so unsparingly pointed out to her pupil ; but 
 still there was all Meg's beauty, and there 
 was the soul, too, which Mary Norton had 
 caught out-looking from her eyes.
 
 MRS. MAYNe's new LODGER. 131 
 
 " Something might be made of that girl," 
 he muttered softly; but Mrs. Mayne over- 
 heard him. 
 
 " Yes, there are a great many things she 
 is fit for ; and it's a face that would stand 
 dressing. Refine her a little, as Mary Nor- 
 ton has done, and she would make a good 
 study for an historical or classical picture. 
 But you'll understand, I don't answer for 
 her coming before you with just those eyes^ 
 If Mary Norton saw that look in them, it's 
 more than I ever did." 
 
 "Your Mary Norton must be a clever 
 girl, either to have seen that look or painted 
 it. I wonder, if the look is in those eyes, 
 whether I shall have thes kill to call it up. 
 But I shall be late at the Haymarket. Good 
 evening, Mrs. Mayne." 
 
 ^2
 
 132 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 MR. ENSDELL FINDS A MODEL AT LAST. 
 
 T 
 
 HE next morning, when Meg called on 
 Mrs. Mayne, she was told by that lady 
 of Mr. Ensdell's wish to engage her as a 
 model. She took it for granted that Meg 
 would raise no objections; nor indeed did 
 she. It was far better to be sitting, however 
 still, in a warm dry room to be painted from, 
 than to be standing at the corners of the 
 streets, exposed to the pelting rain or keen 
 wind, and paid much better ; besides the 
 pleasant consciousness, of which I have be- 
 fore spoken, that she helped "make pic- 
 tures." Accordingly, Meg followed Mrs. 
 Mayne's housemaid very readily into the
 
 MK. ENSDELL FINDS A MODEL. 133 
 
 studio, and Mr. Ensdell not yet having 
 finished breakfast, the girl told her she liad 
 better wait there till he came down. 
 
 Meg passed the time in looking about 
 her. The studio had improved very much in 
 the six weeks that Mr. Ensdell had been its 
 occupant. The casts and busts were still 
 there, as Mrs. Mayne did not know where 
 else to put them, but he had brought in, as 
 I have said, so many of his own possessions^ 
 that the appearance of the room was quite 
 altered. The armour — a knight's cuirass — 
 was a great puzzle to her. It couldn't be a 
 saucepan, for it was open at the top and 
 bottom ; and the shield by its side was as 
 great a wonder. Could that be a tray ? — 
 and if so, how did the cups and saucers keep 
 upon it? She had a true woman's delight 
 in the old china, and mentally pronounced 
 the carved furniture too grand to be used ! 
 But these were all of less importance in
 
 134 MEG. 
 
 Meg's eyes than the additional busts and 
 casts which Mr. Ensdell had brought into 
 the studio. There was Clyte, and a head of 
 Apollo. Meg turned enraptured from one 
 to the other. But that which entranced her 
 most was a life-size cast of Cupid and Psyche* 
 The god was standing by the maiden, and 
 bending over as if to whisper the words 
 that she would never weary of hearing. The 
 group told its own story. It was love, pure, 
 intense, undoubting. Meg felt it so, and saw 
 moulded in the clay before her the very em- 
 bodiment of her own vague dreams and feel- 
 ings. Would there be, in all the world, 
 ever one to care for her as this one cared 
 for the girl he was looking down upon? 
 What a fine thing such love as this must be! 
 Did it ever come in the way of common 
 folks like her, or was it only meant for 
 young ladies, with good clothes to wear, who 
 played music, and painted pictures ? Well,
 
 MR. ENSDELL FINDS A MODEL. 135 
 
 she helped, too, in that, and if she was good 
 enough to be put in a picture, wasn't she 
 good enough to be loved in real earnest, as 
 this girl here was loved, with a love as 
 different from any poor Joe had ever felt, 
 as this glorious, half-dressed creature before 
 her, neither man nor boy, but something too 
 beautiful to be either, was from the good- 
 looking young costermonger, even in his best 
 velveteen and necktie ! 
 
 So ran Meg's thoughts, as she looked at 
 Cupid and Psyche. Of late she had thought 
 much less regretfully of Joe. Those sittings 
 in the studio had done a great deal towards 
 teaching her how much there was in the 
 world that Swamp Town knew nothing of. 
 The idle chatter of the girls, when Mrs. 
 Mayne left the room, had been full of mean- 
 ings to her. To do them justice, it was far 
 better talk than you would hear from the 
 generality of girls. Each one of Mrs.
 
 186 MEG. 
 
 Mayne's pupils had something else to think 
 of than cither lovers or dress. Art, at any 
 rate, gave both their minds and their eyes 
 other things to occupy them tlian either 
 flirting or fancy-work. All their careless 
 words about their occupation, and the things 
 connected with it, about the books they had 
 read, and the exhibitions they had seen, 
 were so much mental food for Meg. She 
 tried to find out the meaning of each allu- 
 sion, the point of every little joke, and ex- 
 tract from all some nourishment for a new 
 craving within her — a craving that even 
 Joe himself, had he lived, could never have 
 satisfied. Poor Joe ! — he was still poor 
 Joe ! but Meg had begun to feel that, had he 
 lived, there might have come a difference as 
 great between them as even that his death 
 had made. 
 
 I should have liked you to have seen 
 her as she stood this May morning in Mr.
 
 MR. ENSDELL FINDS A MODEL. 137 
 
 Ensdell's studio. Things had gone so well 
 with her lately, for people had bought more 
 flowers, and her sittings to Mrs. Mayne's 
 pupils had been so remunerative, that she 
 had been able to take a dress — only a lilac 
 print, but still neat and whole — out of pawn, 
 as well as a tidy black shawl, and buy her- 
 self a neat straw bonnet trimmed with blue 
 riband. She had hoped, when she came, 
 that Mrs. Mayne would not object to this 
 improvement in her toilet — at any rate, she 
 could but go back for the old patched gown 
 if she would make her wear it ; and she was 
 glad indeed, when she found that she would 
 have to make her appearance before a 
 strange gentleman, that she had been able 
 to procure some decent clothes. Her face 
 had filled out since the chill March day 
 when Mrs. Mayne first saw her, and she had 
 taken more pains with the arrangement of 
 her hair, and the additional time spent in
 
 138 MEG. 
 
 brushing it had been repaid by a lustre and 
 glossiness that neither Rachel nor Rowland 
 could have imparted. And the eyes had, if 
 not the look that Mary Norton had caught, 
 something yet more tender in their earnest 
 questioning as they rested on the group be- 
 fore her. 
 
 So it was Mr. Ensdell saw her, as he 
 opened the door of his studio, and drew his 
 breath as he beheld a model than which 
 neither Titian nor Raphael could have had 
 a better. How did this girl come by such 
 a face ? — and how had she taught her eyes to 
 look like that upon the clay before her ? 
 
 "Enough to give it life!" thought George 
 Ensdell. "Does she know what she is saying 
 with those eyes of hers? A fellow had 
 need to take care of himself if she once turns 
 them like that upon him." 
 
 Presently Meg turned and saw him. 
 Then the soul, with its longings and ques-
 
 MR. ENSDELL FINDS A MODEL. 139 
 
 tions, passed away from the eyes, wliich re- 
 garded him as if he had been a possible pur- 
 chaser of flowers, and dropping a curtsey in 
 accordance with the look, she said, 
 
 "Please, sir, are you the gentleman as 
 wants to paint me ?" 
 
 Ensdell had been in a seventh heaven of 
 rapture with his model. He felt himself 
 on earth, and very common earth indeed, 
 directly she spoke. He hesitated a little — 
 indeed, he scarcely knew how to reply at 
 first, the contrast between Meg's face and 
 her tone and manner was so great. He 
 looked at Meg the while, and she bore the 
 scrutiny unflinchingly. Another girl might 
 have blushed and turned aside from such a 
 look, but Meg's beauty never knew the 
 charm of blushes. They were not a natural 
 product of Swamp Town. 
 
 " Perhaps he thinks I'm not good-looking 
 enough— I ought to be, if Miss Norton's pic-
 
 140 MEG. 
 
 ture is like me," she thought ; but she waited 
 quietly enough — as she would have done 
 had he been selecting flowers from her bas- 
 ket. Presently Mr. Ensdell observed, for 
 want of something else to say, " You can 
 come to me regularly, I suppose ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir, if it suits you. And I sit very 
 still — the young ladies all said that of me," 
 replied Meg. 
 
 "Well, we'll take our first sitting to-mor- 
 row. Now that I have seen you, I shall 
 be better able to judge in what character to 
 take you." 
 
 He looked at her attentively. What cos- 
 tume would suit her style of beauty best ? 
 Then he resolved just to secure the face and 
 throat — make a portrait of her, in fact, and 
 hang it up in his sitting-room. Like Mary 
 Norton, he felt it was a face to look on for 
 ever — " especially in a picture, where it can't 
 open its mouth."
 
 MR. ENSDELL FINDS A MODEL. 141 
 
 The eyes were wearing the quiet dreami- 
 ness which was all Mrs. Mayne had seen in 
 them. But he knew how different they had 
 looked both in Mary Norton's picture and 
 under his own gaze. Could he do nothing 
 to call such a look back ? At least, he 
 would try. He directed her attention to 
 the group before her. 
 
 "A nice thing that, isn't it ?" he said, nod- 
 ding towards it. 
 
 " I don't know," said Meg, " but I like to 
 look at it." 
 
 And she looked again ; but it was only 
 with a quietly curious expression. The one 
 he wanted would not come at his bidding. 
 He would try her with something else. 
 
 " I hope I did not keep you long wait- 
 ing?" he said. "There are some books 
 here you might have amused yourself by 
 turning over." 
 
 He led the way to a side-table, on which
 
 142 MEG. 
 
 were some splendidly illustrated books, and 
 a portfolio. He turned over some of the 
 former for Meg's amusement, watching her 
 the while he did so. She was pleased and in- 
 terested, and thawed a little as her exclama- 
 tion, " That's fine ! — I like that, now!" plainly 
 showed, but the look he wanted did not 
 come back — not the look which he hoped 
 to catch, and put in his portrait of her. 
 There was a magnificent Shakespeare amongst 
 the books. 
 
 " You might like to read this to-morrow, 
 if you're waiting for me," he said. 
 
 Meg looked up to him with a little 
 shame. 
 
 " I can't read — I never had no time to 
 learn — I wish I could now — books must tell 
 us such a sight of things — don't they, sir?" 
 
 "Oh! Lord!" thought Ensdell, "some 
 one deserves to be indicted for soulicide. 
 What words for such lips I" and he fairly
 
 MR. ENSDELL FINDS A MODEL. 143 
 
 shuddered; Meg's grammar jarred on him 
 as a false note would on a musician. He 
 took up a portfolio. "There are some 
 things here you would like to see, I think," 
 he observed, as he turned the prints and 
 drawings over. 
 
 Presently they came to an engraving of 
 Guido's Beatrice Cenci. Meg took it. in her 
 hand, and regarded it attentively ; then she 
 laid it dovm, and looking up at Ensdell 
 with eyes in which the tears seemed ready to 
 start forth, said, 
 
 " Was there ever a poor girl, sir, that 
 looked Hke that ?" 
 
 "Yes! it's a sad story," said Ensdell, "too 
 sad for me to tell you now. But you see you 
 will find plenty of amusement here, if you 
 should come early to-morrow. I shall 
 be ready for you at twelve. Will that suit 
 you?" 
 
 " Any time will do for me, sir," replied
 
 144 MEG. 
 
 Meg. " I don't go out with my flowers the 
 days as I comes here." 
 
 " Shade of Lmdley Murray ! " thought 
 Ensdell, " what an act of Christian charity 
 it would be to teach this creature to read 
 thy pages !" 
 
 Then he shpped some money in Meg's 
 hand, telhng her he had taken up her time, 
 and must pay her the same as if she had sat 
 to him. Meg thanked him and curtsied 
 again — how he hated that curtsey, which 
 savoured so of Swamp Town — and went her 
 way, thinking there were good days before 
 her, and if she could keep a little money 
 back from her mother, she would try and 
 find some school, where, big as she was, 
 they wouldn't mind teaching her to read. 
 
 " And then I'll find out who Eve was, 
 and that girl I've just been looking at."
 
 145 
 
 CHAPTER X, 
 
 meg's education is commenced. 
 
 " mHERE'LL be mischief come of it, if 
 -*- you allow that girl to come and go 
 like this, Rosa," said Mrs. Baring, a few 
 weeks after Meg's first appearance in Mr. 
 Ensdell's studio. "It's not a thing you 
 ought to allow at all, and I'm perfectly sur- 
 prised at your doing so." 
 
 " Well, mamma, I'm not responsible for 
 Mr. Ensdell's movements. I've let him the 
 studio, and how can I interfere with any one 
 he chooses to have in it ? If he don't know 
 the proprieties by this time, I'm sure I can't 
 teach them to him ? Besides, what on earth 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 146 MEG. 
 
 have the proprieties to do with a case like 
 this ? He pays the girl so much an hour to 
 sit to him ; she's a good-looking girl, or she 
 wouldn't suit his purpose. And am I to 
 tell him that because she is good-looking, I 
 won't allow her to come to the house ? In 
 which case Mr. Ensdell would very likely 
 look out for another landlady — but I'm 
 sure he wouldn't for another model. But 
 if you're at all alarmed, either on the girl's 
 account, or on his, why don't you play pro- 
 priety, and install yourself as duenna during 
 the sittings? I've no doubt Mr. Ensdell 
 would be very glad of some one to talk to, 
 for, according to hhn, he never gets out of 
 patience with his model but when she opens 
 her mouth. Her grammar's something aw- 
 ful. He says there ought to be a missionary 
 society, for the purpose of preaching Lindley 
 Murray to the lower classes. Ask Meggy 
 Powitt, when you see her, whether she
 
 meg's education is commenced. 147 
 
 thinks sucli a one would do much good in. 
 Swamp Town ?" 
 
 Mrs. Baring nodded significantly. 
 
 " He'd be ready enough to be one of the 
 missionaries, if there were many such Pa- 
 gans as this girl to be converted. However, 
 go your own way, Rosa ; I've done my 
 duty, and given you my advice, and when 
 you find out that Mr. Ensdell isn't all artist 
 when a pretty girl is in the way, you'H 
 have no one but yourself to blame for the 
 consequences." 
 
 " I should be very sorry to say that Mr. 
 Ensdell is all artist," retorted Mrs. Mayne. 
 " It would be a very bad thing for art if he 
 were ; but, as far as this girl is concerned, 
 I'm convinced he does look on her as his 
 model, and nothing more. Her colouring 
 is superb, and her outline faultless. Hell 
 never do them justice, though he's raving of 
 the sensation his picture of her as Scott's 
 
 l2
 
 148 MEG. 
 
 Rebecca will create at the Academy next 
 year. There are only two chances that his 
 anticipations will never be realised ; the 
 first is, that he will be too idle to finish it ; 
 and the next, that if, by a miracle, it is com- 
 pleted, it will be too insufferably bad even 
 for the Academy to hang." 
 
 Mrs. Mayne was rather bitter against the 
 Academy. It had never yet hung one of 
 her own pictures, possibly not being yet suf- 
 ficently advanced in high art to appreciate 
 their excellence. Her mother, without 
 taking notice of her concluding remark, re- 
 turned to the attack upon Mr. Ensdell. 
 
 " I've no doubt he appreciates her colour- 
 ing and outlines quite as well as you do, 
 and when he's tired of his picture, and no 
 longer wants a model, will still be as ready 
 to perceive their excellence. In plain Eng- 
 lish, Rosa, if you let things go on like this, 
 you must be prepared either to give your
 
 MEG S EDUCATION IS COMMENCED. 149 
 
 lodger warning next quarter, or see his 
 model installed here as his mistress." 
 
 " Good gracious ! mamma, you proper 
 people are always the readiest to suspect 
 improper things ! When Ensdell's tired of 
 her — I give him another month to be so in 
 — I shall recommend her to JefFeries or 
 Goodwin. She'd do splendidly for the 
 last in his Eastern pieces, if he heightens 
 her tones a little ; and what greater harm 
 can there be in sitting to Ensdell than to 
 either of these ? Or are you going to set 
 your face against good-looking models alto- 
 gether? Rather a change in your views, 
 considering how often you've told me I look 
 upon ugliness as a primary qualification for 
 mine." 
 
 ^' Jefferies is an elderly man, and lives 
 with his sister. No one would ever suspect 
 him of falling in love with his model. 
 Goodwin is married, and the father of a
 
 150 MEG. 
 
 family, and miglit paint Venus herself dis- 
 robed, without the slightest imputation on 
 his moral character. Mr Ensdell is not 
 married, and does not live with his sister, 
 and is " 
 
 "Well, mamma?" said Mrs. Mayne, 
 brusquely. 
 
 " A man of the world, and neither better 
 nor worse than men of the world generally 
 are," replied Mrs. Baring, rising to take her 
 leave. She had just finished luncheon, and 
 went to the glass to put on her bonnet. She 
 was as careful in this putting on as if she 
 had been still a young woman — there was 
 never a hair out of place, or the least minu- 
 tia of her toilet wrong in Mrs. Baring. " I 
 do wish, Rosa," she said, as she pulled out 
 the bows, "you would remember that a 
 dirty brown holland is not quite the thing at 
 this time of day ; and if you would remem- 
 ber that there are such things as brushes
 
 meg's education is commenced. 151 
 
 and combs in the world, it would make a 
 great difference in your appearance. Upon 
 my word, to look at you now, you might sit 
 to Mr. Ensdell, if he wanted a Gorgon's 
 head." 
 
 As Mrs. Baring went into the hall, she 
 encountered Meg, who had just arrived. 
 She looked fresher and brighter than Mrs. 
 Baring had ever seen her. It was very clear 
 that she wanted no lectures upon the utility 
 of brushes and combs. She had actually 
 bought gloves ! — they were only coloured 
 thread ones, but, still, gloves at all were 
 strange things for Swamp Town. Her dress 
 was very plain, but the girl knew how to 
 wear it ; and her cheap black shawl draped 
 her shoulders better than the Cashmere of 
 many a great lady would hers. There was 
 a little pink rosebud inside the bonnet — 
 only a cheap flower, but it looked wonder- 
 fully well on the thick dark hair. Mrs.
 
 152 MEG. 
 
 Baring took it all in — gloves, rosebud, and 
 the wonderful plaits of hair, and made her 
 own comments as she passed the girl, and 
 slightly nodded in return to her respectful 
 curtsey aud good day. Of course things 
 were going just as she had expected they 
 would go. Well, she had done her part, 
 and warned Rosa, who, however, never 
 could be taught to behave with common 
 sense, and who would have no one but her- 
 self to blame, let things take what turn they 
 might. And the turn they would take, Mrs. 
 Baring thought was very clear. 
 
 However, they had not taken this turn 
 yet, whatever they might do. Mr. Ensdell 
 was very much interested in his model ; but 
 because he believed that if he did her jus- 
 tice, she in return would immortalize him. 
 And he wished to keep her to himself — ^it 
 was altogether a face too rare to be thrown 
 away upon such as Goodwin and Jefferies,
 
 meg's education is commenced. 153 
 
 of whom Mrs. Mayne had spoken to him as 
 likely to engage her. So he paid Meg well, 
 and took up a great deal of her time, so that 
 .she had quite given up her flower-selling, 
 and often spent more than half the day in 
 his studio. It was these protracted sittings 
 that had alarmed Mrs. Baring's sense of pro- 
 priety. Unnecessarily as yet, however, for 
 Mr. Ensdell was often out of his studio for 
 hours while Meg was waiting for him. He^ 
 would fix a time for her to come there, and 
 not make his own appearance till an hour or 
 so afterwards. She was there, so she couldn't 
 be anywhere else, and he should pay her 
 for her time whether she sat to him or not ; 
 and he would finish his cigar and his novel, 
 and then walk in leisurely, with a careless 
 half apology, and direct Meg how to place 
 herself in the right light and position, and 
 proceed to work in tolerable earnest. 
 
 Sometimes friends came in, who com-
 
 154 MEG. 
 
 merited on the progress of the picture, and 
 stared at Meg ; but she was used to being 
 stared at. And then Mr. Ensdell would leave 
 off painting, and chat with his visitors over 
 the current topics of the day — such of them, 
 at least, as interested him and them. The 
 races, the last new singer, the on clits of the 
 papers or the clubs, choice bits of scandal 
 or gossip ; there was no occasion for any 
 reticence to be practised before his model. 
 A girl from Swamp Town, who must have 
 lived all her life in an atmosphere to which 
 that of his studio, even when the jokes were 
 freest, and the slang the loudest, would be 
 purity itself. Meg sat all the time as un- 
 moved as when, outside the theatres, she 
 heard the objurgations of the cabmen, or the 
 hum, and the stir, and the ribaldry of the 
 life that the gas-lamp, shone upon. Some- 
 how, she did not listen as she had done to 
 the chatter of Mrs. Mayne's pupils — some-
 
 meg's education is commenced. 155 
 
 how, she did not like the gentlemen's talk 
 so well, but she drew back in herself, and 
 quietly thought out the last lesson she had 
 learned, or the meaning of the last page she 
 had read. 
 
 For Meg had begun to learn lessons and 
 read books. A new lodger had come to 
 the house she lived in — an elderly, broken- 
 down, ruined man, who had been a banker's 
 clerk in his day, and had lost his situation 
 through drunkenness and dishonesty. He 
 had been steadily going down ever since, 
 and at last had drifted to Swamp Town, 
 where he earned a living by various shifts — 
 begging-letter writing amongst the rest. 
 Meg knew he could read and write — ^rare 
 accomplishments for an inhabitant of Swamp 
 Town ; and she knew, too, that he was des- 
 perately poor, so she kept some of her earn- 
 ings back, and asked Mr. Twiss if he would 
 instruct her in them. Mr. Twiss drove a
 
 156 MEG. 
 
 hard bargain — he liked the girl for her looks, 
 as he coarsely told her, but his time was 
 precious, and must be paid for. However, 
 Meg was able to satisfy him and her mother 
 too, and so evening after evening she spent 
 in his small, close den, conning over Mavor^s 
 Spelling-book, and forming pot-hooks. Her 
 mother did not interfere with her proceed- 
 ings — indeed, she was scarcely in a state to 
 do so, being generally, now funds were so 
 plentiful, in a maudlin state of semi-drunken- 
 ness. Meg performed the few domestic 
 duties necessary in their little home — washed, 
 mended, and cooked; and when these offices 
 were over, it was generally time to go to 
 Mr. Ensdell's studio; and when she returned, 
 had given her mother her tea, and heard her 
 complaints of the neighbours' insolence, and 
 the heartless manner in which they neglected 
 her, it was time to go to Mr. Twiss, and reap 
 what benefit she could from his instructions.
 
 meg's education is commenced. 157 
 
 Mr. Twiss did not give himself very much 
 trouble about her. He sat and smoked his 
 pipe, and, if funds were plentiful, sipped his 
 gin and water, while Meg spelled out her 
 lesson, and then repeated it to him. He 
 sat by her side while she wrote, and lazily 
 directed her in the formation of her letters. 
 Then she read aloud to him, and the reading 
 was very wearying. The little easy lessons 
 that alone Meg could master, were so child- 
 ish and unmeaning. What did she want to 
 know about Frank Pitt and Miss Jane's 
 doll? It wouldn't be much good learning 
 to read, if books could only tell her such 
 stuff as this. But no doubt the books that 
 gentlefolks read would teach her a great deal 
 more, if once she was clever enough to un- 
 derstand them. Such books as Mr. Ensdell 
 had shown her the first day she was in his 
 studio, and which she had been afraid to 
 touch ever since, with all her waiting. Some
 
 158 MEG. 
 
 day, when she went, she would open one of 
 them, and try and find out what it was all 
 about. Something very different from Frank 
 Pitt or Miss Jane, she expected. 
 
 One indirect benefit she derived from as- 
 sociating with Mr. Twiss. Drunken and be- 
 sotted as the man was, still he had been 
 educated, and Meg was quick to perceive 
 the difference between his mode of speech 
 and that of her other acquaintances in 
 Swamp Town. She had detected the same 
 difference, but in a greater degree, in Mrs. 
 Mayne's pupils and Mr. Ensdell. What was 
 it made them all speak so unlike her ? Did 
 reading and writing make folks talk like 
 that ? or was it their being born gentlefolks, 
 for even Mr. Twiss, dirty, unshaved, and 
 sordid as he went now, she suspected had 
 had a great fall before he alighted in Swamp 
 Town. If reading and writing would do 
 it, why should not Meg in time talk as the
 
 meg's education is commenced. 159 
 
 young ladies who first painted her had 
 done ? And then there came a dull, heavy 
 consciousness that the difference between 
 herself and those girls was one greater than 
 even reading and writing could overcome. 
 What was it? — where was it? Meg did 
 not know, but felt it all the same. 
 
 She was late this morning in arriving at 
 the studio, for her mother had been taken 
 ill in the night ; and Meg did not like to 
 leave her till she had prevailed on one of 
 the girls she knew to come and sit with her. 
 She was in hopes Mr. Ensdell would not be 
 angry, for he had told her to come at 
 twelve, and it was now past two. 
 
 But she need not have been alarmed ; 
 Mr. Ensdell had gone out of town the pre- 
 vious day, and had not yet returned. His 
 absence had been caused by a visit to the 
 Oaks, the master of which and he were dis- 
 tantly related. It was a pleasant place
 
 160 MEG. 
 
 enough for a day's visit this sultry weather, 
 and Mr. Ensdell might have been tempted 
 to protract his stay, but for his great wish 
 to commence at once the picture of which 
 he had been speaking to Mrs. Mayne. He 
 had taken Meg's portrait, but it had not 
 pleased him. It was a likeness, certainly ; 
 and, as a painting, much superior to Mary 
 Norton's ; but it was a tame, commonplace 
 resemblance in features and colouring, while 
 hers had caught an expression which his 
 lacked utterly. 
 
 Meg was the perfection of a sitter, as far 
 as stillness and docility went ; but he could 
 never call up the look he wanted — the look 
 which Mary Norton had fixed on her can- 
 vas, or the look with which he had seen 
 Meg regarding Psyche. On reflection, he 
 was inclined to blame himself for this. Why 
 had he not talked to the girl more? It 
 was true, her grammar was very dreadful.
 
 meg's education is commenced. 161 
 
 and lier accent a positive infliction ; but lie 
 must submit to that infliction if he wanted 
 to catch the girl at her best; and why 
 should he not try to improve and develop 
 her? A girl with such eyes must have 
 something within her to be improved and 
 developed, and if he wanted his picture to 
 be a worthy rendering of Rebecca, as she 
 bent over the wounded Ivanhoe, he must 
 try and bring out the latent capabilities of his 
 model. It would be a bore — of course it 
 would, the girl was so desperately, hope- 
 lessly ignorant ; but still there was good ma- 
 terial to work upon, and a purpose to work 
 for. There was the clay, perfect in form, 
 and might he not imbue it with a soul, and 
 so at last have the model he had been wish- 
 ing for all his life ? He would try. 
 
 But in all this there was no thought of 
 any such end as Mrs. Baring had so plainly 
 intimated to her daughter. George Ens- 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 162 MEG. 
 
 dell was, as she had said, a man of the 
 world, and certainly no purer or better than 
 men of the world generally are. But as yet, 
 Meg was nothing but his model, — a model 
 whom he was very glad to have, and in 
 whose beauty he exulted, but who still re- 
 quired a great deal of improvement before 
 she would be all that he could wish. After 
 all, there was more of the artist in him as yet 
 than the clever old lady gave him credit for. 
 Meg went into the little closet that open- 
 ed from the studio, and proceeded to array 
 herself in the dress in which she was to sit 
 as Rebecca. The first sitting was to be to- 
 day, and she had not yet tried on the dress. 
 It was very handsome, and Meg felt the soft 
 velvet of the upper robe with pleasure. She 
 had never dreamed in all her life that any- 
 thing so dainty, soft, and beautiful could fall 
 to her to wear. Mr. Ensdell had spared no 
 expense, and the costumier had taken great
 
 meg's education is commenced. 163 
 
 pains to carry out his directions, so that Meg 
 was as royally attired as even an Eastern 
 princess need to be. 
 
 The jewels, indeed, were false ; but that 
 mattered little to Meg, who was not versed 
 in such matters. But she liked the sheen of 
 the silk, and its rustle when she moved; and 
 it was pleasant to see the rich folds of the 
 drapery, and to feel it sweeping after her. If 
 she could always dress like this I She shoul^ 
 not care much whether any one saw her or 
 not — but it would be so nice always to wear 
 these fine things — they would make her 
 feel and look like a lady, in her own eyes 
 at least. She passed the table where the 
 books and portfolios were lying. To-day she 
 felt emboldened to take one up. It did not 
 seem such an impertinence now she had this 
 grand dress to wear. She opened the illus- 
 trated edition of Shakespeare, which Mr. 
 Ensdell had first shown her, and, after 
 
 M 2
 
 164 MEG. 
 
 looking at the pictures, tried to spell 
 out some of the lines. She did not 
 make much of it ; but still she would not 
 give up the attempt. Such a book as this 
 must have something in it worth the reading, 
 if she could only make it out. She was en- 
 gaged in trying to do so when Mr. Ensdell 
 opened the door and saw her. 
 
 He was enraptured with the effect of the 
 dress, and Meg's occupation. Was she im- 
 proving of her own accord — was his model 
 waking of herself? If she could only read 
 Shakespeare, there might be some hope of 
 her. Why had he not thought of that 
 sooner ? — he might have read him to her. 
 
 Presently Meg looked up, and laying the 
 book down, rose with her little awkward 
 curtsey — a curtsey that always exasperated 
 Ensdell, and never more so than now. It 
 was so absurdly out of keeping with Rebec- 
 ca's robes.
 
 meg's education is commenced. 165 
 
 " For heaven's sake don't do that !" lie ex- 
 claimed in a fit of irritation. " You can't 
 suppose Rebecca ever did. If you could 
 only feel the part as well as dress it, what 
 an assistance it would be !" 
 
 Meg felt puzzled. What did Mr. Ensdell 
 mean — and who was Rebecca? Was she 
 dressed up to look like any one that had 
 ever lived ? Was there a meaning in these 
 fine clothes, and was she to be painted, not 
 as herself, as she had thought, with just these 
 fine things to make her look the finer, but 
 as some rich lady, who had always worn 
 them, and who was not living now, to have 
 her picture taken from herself? Was 
 she, Meg, like her? — and if so, who was 
 she — this Rebecca of whom Mr. Ensdell 
 spoke ? Would he be angry if she asked 
 him? 
 
 " Please, sir," she said, " who was Rebec- 
 ca, and how am I to feel her ?"
 
 166 MEG. 
 
 " Look like her, if you can ! Who was 
 she? — well, a Jewess." 
 
 " And wore such clothes as these ?" said 
 Meg, whose ideas of a Jewess were connect- 
 ed with a stout personage who kept a small 
 shop in a dirty, narrow by-street, leading 
 out of Camden Town, and sold fried fish, 
 which she had sometimes purchased. 
 
 " Yes, and better. It was a long time 
 ago ; she was very beautiful, as by this 
 time you must pretty well know you are 
 too. She fell in love with a handsome 
 young fellow, who cared for some one else 
 instead of her, and when he was ill, wound- 
 ed in a tournament — but there, I don't sup- 
 pose you know what that is — nursed him 
 till he got well again." 
 
 " Did he care for her then ?" asked 
 Meg. 
 
 " Not as she would have had him — not 
 as a man cares for his wife ; he married the
 
 meg's education is commenced. 167 
 
 other, and it's to be hoped lived happy ever 
 after !" 
 
 " And what became of Rebecca ?" said 
 Meg. 
 
 " Turned district visitor, or something of 
 the kind — gave all her finery up to Rowena 
 — the other, you know — and spent her life 
 in sick-visiting, and seeing that poor folks 
 kept their houses clean, and sent their chil- 
 dren to school — at least, I don't know that 
 there were any schools in those days ; but it 
 don't matter, you know — she would have 
 done, if there were." 
 
 Meg pondered over Rebecca's story, then 
 she said — 
 
 " I should have liked to have known her 
 — she must have been a good lady. To 
 think of her giving up her fine things to the 
 other ! That must have been to make her 
 look better in Ms eyes. She must have 
 been very fond of him."
 
 168 MEG. 
 
 " Shall I read part of the story to you ?" 
 asked Ensdell; and taking up "Ivanhoe," he 
 read aloud the description of the tourna- 
 ment, and Rebecca's appearance in it. 
 
 Meg listened attentively ; then, when he 
 had finished, said, 
 
 " What books do tell us, to be sure ! 
 I'll work harder at my spelling now than 
 ever." 
 
 " Do," replied Ensdell, '^and I'll make you 
 a present of this book as soon as you can 
 read it." 
 
 Then he directed Meg how to place her- 
 self in the attitude he wished her to take, 
 and began sketching her. He worked 
 hard, but more hopefully than ever. There 
 had come a light into Meg's eyes since his 
 reading, and a change over her whole bear- 
 ing, that made him feel as if, at last, he had 
 woke the soul within her. He would per- 
 severe in these readings ; they would make
 
 meg's education is commenced. 169 
 
 his Rebecca live on the canvas. He had 
 found the true charm now with which to 
 wake his statue into life, and he would take 
 care it never slept again. 
 ' When the sitting was over, he told Meg 
 he would read the book through to her, if 
 she liked — a chapter or so every time she 
 came — and Meg's eyes glistened with delight 
 as she thanked him. She took off her beau- 
 tiful dress with a sigh ; it seemed so hard to^ 
 have to put on that lilac print again, but 
 she should come back the next day, and be 
 dressed like a queen, and hear more of that 
 wonderful book, and talk to Mr. Ensdell. 
 He was very, very good-natured, after all. 
 Meg had never felt much prepossessed in 
 his favour before, but she felt as if she could 
 like him now almost as well as she had 
 done that Miss Norton who first took her 
 picture. 
 
 She went out of the room ; and Ensdell
 
 170 MEG. 
 
 said to himself, " Cinderella again," as she 
 passed him ; but he saw that Cinderella had 
 not forgotten her training as princess, after 
 all, for, as she went out, instead of the little 
 curtsey which had so annoyed him, she gave 
 a slight bend of the head, as she had seen 
 Mary Norton do to Mrs. Mayne, and said, 
 " Good evening, sir," with an accent as re- 
 fined as Mary Norton herself could have 
 used. 
 
 " Something might be made of that girl," 
 said Ensdell to himself, " if any fellow were 
 disposed to try — something more than a 
 model, after all. I think I have roused her 
 at last." 
 
 Were things taking the turn Mrs. Baring 
 had foreseen, or was Meg to be nothing 
 but the model ?
 
 171 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 AN UNSUCCESSFUL MAN. 
 
 II /TRS. WINTHROP was duly installed at 
 ■^^-^ the Oaks, and Eleanor found her pre- 
 sence there less of an infliction than she ha(J 
 anticipated. She was very gentle, very pre- 
 cise, but evidently much more afraid of her 
 charge than the young lady was of her. The 
 walks were trying ; Mrs. Winthrop wore 
 black always, and the dust of the country 
 roads was detrimental to her flowing dra- 
 peries ; then she was afraid of horned cattle, 
 and had a true Cockney s horror of insect 
 and reptile life. Eleanor wished devoutly 
 her last governess, who was an unflinching 
 pedestrian, and had not the slightest fear of
 
 172 MEG. 
 
 either cows or caterpillars, had never been 
 so false to her pupil as to marry and desert 
 her ; or that her father had been satisfied 
 that she wanted no other guardianship than 
 his, and not been induced to install that poor, 
 pale, feeble Mrs. Winthrop as chaperon ; but 
 there she was, " a great nuisance," as Nelly 
 frankly owned to herself, but still to be made 
 the best of 
 
 It was quite out of the question her 
 exercising any control over Nelly, and she 
 never attempted it. A faint remonstrance, 
 when the dust was too powerful or the 
 cows looked too threatening, was the utmost 
 Mrs. Winthrop attempted. Nelly saw her 
 chaperon s weakness and her own strength 
 at once, but she was too good a girl to 
 abuse the knowledge. 
 
 " It's quite out of the question her taking 
 care of me, so I must of her," she said to 
 herself; and soon found quite an interest
 
 AN UNSUCCESSFUL MAN. 173 
 
 and occupation in looking after and petting 
 Mrs. Winthrop, who had a mild, faint in- 
 validism, as mild and as faint as everything 
 else about her, and was very ready to give 
 herself into the hands of her energetic charge 
 to be taken care of accordingly. 
 
 It might have been well for Nelly if she 
 had met with a woman of a different stamp. 
 She would have been all the better for a 
 little guidance and direction. Her impulses^ 
 were right and true, but they needed some 
 control. As to her father's exercising it, 
 that was out of the question. He had sys- 
 tematically done his best to spoil Nelly ever 
 since she ran alojie. Fortunately for herself, 
 Nelly's was not a nature to be easily spoiled, 
 but the girl sometimes wearied even of the 
 roses with which she was smothered — roses 
 from which the thorns had been so carefully 
 extracted. Life was all smooth sailing under 
 summer skies at the Oaks ,• sometimes Nelly
 
 174 MEG. 
 
 felt tempted to wish for a little stormy 
 weather, as a change. 
 
 This life was, or should have been, a 
 happy one; but it was dull, with all its 
 happiness, at times. Nelly, at seventeen, 
 felt herself a little hlasee. Croquet-parties 
 and archery-meetings were all very well in 
 their way ; but then, as Nelly felt tempted 
 to ask, with a little indignation, was there 
 nothing better in the world for her than 
 croquet-parties or archery-meetings? Or 
 were these all that she was sent into the 
 world for ? Was there nothing higher than 
 all these little country festivities, these 
 dinner-parties and dances in the winter, these 
 out-door merry-makings in the summer? 
 They were good things enough in their way, 
 but their goodness palled on Nelly. And 
 she had many other good things, too — her 
 pleasant home, her flowers, her pets, her 
 pretty dresses, and her doting father ; but
 
 AN UNSUCCESSFUL MAN. 175 
 
 then — that was the trouble to Nelly — why 
 had so many good things fallen to her share? 
 — and why were there so many who had to 
 go without altogether ? She had been kept 
 from the very knowledge of evil and sorrow 
 as much as possible ; but then she was not 
 a girl that it was easy so to keep. There 
 were books, and they told her something ; 
 and Nelly had keen eyes and quick instincts 
 of her own, and they told her a great deal 
 more. She would have liked to go visiting 
 amongst the cottages of the labouring poor 
 around, but her father shrank with horror 
 from the idea. Tliere were always measles, 
 and fevers, and infectious diseases in such 
 places — there was no knowing what evil 
 might befall her if she ventured in them. 
 Or if she entered a house that might return 
 a clean bill of health, physically, there was 
 no answering for its moral atmosphere. 
 These coarse village girls were not fit to
 
 176 MEG. 
 
 come in contact with his Nelly — there were 
 raany of them, as he knew, whose very touch 
 he would have considered contamination to 
 her. Sin was an ugly thing, and a vile — it 
 should not come near his child. Few had 
 a better right to know of its ugliness or vile- 
 ness than Mr. Stanton. He had seen it near 
 enough. 
 
 Not but that Nelly was allowed to be 
 charitable, after her father's fashion. Charity 
 — that is, a certain amount of almsgiving — 
 was a very graceful feminine attribute ; his 
 daughter ought to possess it, as she ought to 
 possess every other accomplishment and good 
 quality befitting her position. So Nelly was 
 allowed to give a few old women, who came 
 up to the house to receive them, warm gar- 
 ments in the winter, and to visit the girls' 
 school now and then, and give prizes to 
 those who most distinguished themselves. 
 Au reste. Mr. Stanton subscribed to all the
 
 AN UNSUCCESSFUL MAN. 177 
 
 local charities, and a few of the London 
 ones, and was very well satisfied with the 
 use he made of his wealth, and the manner 
 in which he filled his position — a great 
 deal more so than Nelly was. Something 
 was wrong, she felt, in the world around 
 her ; but where the wrong was, or how it 
 was to be rectified, was more than she could 
 tell. She would have liked to have gone 
 finding out the evil for herself, and trying 
 what, with her little powers, she could do 
 to set it right. But then she felt shy and 
 awkward in setting about the matter. I 
 think if it had not been for this shyness 
 of hers she would have cared little about 
 her father's wishes, and would have found 
 some way of her own to overrule them. 
 But where to begin, and how to begin, what 
 to do, and the right way to do it, were the 
 questions that troubled Nelly. If she had 
 once been satisfied on these points, I think 
 
 VOL. L N
 
 178 MEG. 
 
 the young lady would have done as she 
 pleased in the matter. 
 
 It may be seen that Nelly had sufficient 
 affection, but not too much reverence for 
 her father. Unhappily her training had not 
 been such as to imbue her with much reve- 
 rence for any one. The only person to 
 whom she felt at all inclined to yield it, was 
 perhaps the unluckiest man she knew — 
 Arnold Ensdell, half-brother to the gentle- 
 man who just at this time was painting Meg 
 as Rebecca, and doing his best to imbue his 
 model with some perception of the character. 
 
 Arnold Ensdell had hitherto been an un- 
 successful man. Things that would have 
 gone smoothly and pleasantly with others, 
 seemed always to go wrong with him — an 
 evil chance attended his best efforts for 
 success ; and even the attempts of others to 
 help him appeared to be as abortive as his 
 own. His father insured his life solely on
 
 AN UNSUCCESSFUL MAN. 179 
 
 Arnold's behalf, his elder brother George 
 being amply provided for by his grand- 
 mother ; and forgetting to keep up the in- 
 surance, died precisely a week after the last 
 day allotted for payment. Arnold bore the 
 loss with tolerable philosophy — he had just 
 been called to the bar, and his mother 
 having been some years dead, there was no 
 one but himself to be affected by it. His 
 prospects were good, as an old friend of Jiis 
 father's, a solicitor in first-rate practice, had 
 promised to put as much in his way as he 
 could. He sent Arnold one brief, and never 
 lived to send another, dying at the very 
 time when he might have been of most ser- 
 vice to his young friend. Arnold took to 
 writing while waiting for more briefs, and 
 the editor of the Piccadilly was sufficiently 
 satisfied with his first few papers, in which 
 some jobbing in high places was exposed, 
 and some long-standing abuses fearlessly at- 
 
 n2
 
 180 MEG. 
 
 tacked, to promise him an appointment on 
 the staff. But the editor quarrelled with 
 the publisher, and the end of it was, he 
 threw up his berth, and the Piccadilly veered 
 round in its tactics, and there was no talk 
 of any further employment for Arnold Ens- 
 dell as one of its contributors. He got on 
 at the bar " somehow," as George Ensdell, 
 the lucky man of the family, used to say with 
 a shrug of his shoulders — earned a little now 
 and then by writing for the magazines, and 
 once in a while saw a brief in his chambers ; 
 and after a time had the promise of a good 
 colonial appointment — so good a one, that 
 it seemed at first as if his usual ill-fortune 
 was deserting him, when just at the time 
 that a vacancy occurred, he fell dangerously 
 ill, and, on his recovery, found that the post 
 promised to him had been conferred upon 
 somebody else. Always the way, always — 
 Fate never seemed weary of teasing him —
 
 AN UNSUCCESSFUL MAN. 181 
 
 for ever holding the cup to his lips, only 
 to dash it away. He was an "unlucky 
 dog," and that was all that could be said 
 about it, according to George Ensdell, who 
 appeared to consider his own more fortu- 
 nate position no more than was due to his 
 own deservings. 
 
 There was nine years' diiference between 
 the two half-brothers. George Ensdell had 
 been one of the seniors at a great collegiate 
 school, while his little brother was just mas- 
 tering the first rudiments of knowledge at a 
 preparatory academy kept by two maiden 
 ladies. Things had always been in favour 
 of the superiority which the elder arrogated 
 to himself, as a matter of course. 
 
 Just at the time he was thinking of select- 
 ing a profession, his grandmother departed 
 this world, and was considerate enough to 
 leave him all her possessions, — thus making 
 him at once the millionaire of the family
 
 182 MEG. 
 
 — a very small millionaire, it is true, but 
 quite sufficiently so to be exonerated, in 
 every one's eyes as well as his own, from the 
 necessity of labouring for his living — a ne- 
 cessity which was still incumbent on his 
 younger brother. 
 
 George Ensdell, too, had the advantage 
 over his brother that a perfect satisfaction 
 with himself and his belongings, and a per- 
 fect freedom from mauvaise honte gives a 
 conceited man over a shy and silent one. 
 He was very fluent and voluble, and had an 
 instinctive wish to please, which made him 
 take pains even to propitiate Mrs. Mayne, 
 by affecting to enter into her views of high 
 art, or to seek to win Mrs. Baring s good 
 graces by paying her the nameless little at- 
 tentions which the handsome old lady was 
 as ready to accept as ever. He had a kind 
 word and a pleasant smile even for Sarah, 
 who relaxed somewhat of her grimness
 
 AN UNSUCCESSFUL MAN. 183 
 
 when slie received them. He was welcome 
 in many houses — some very pleasant ones 
 — less in right of his very comfortable pecu- 
 niary position than of his suave flattering 
 manners ; for he had the happy knack of 
 making people as pleased with themselves 
 as with him. On the whole, he was a much 
 more popular member of society than his 
 brother, and found life altogether a far 
 more aOTeeable affair. 
 
 Only for some vague reason, which she 
 would have found it difficult to explain to 
 herself, the young heiress of the Oaks had 
 taken a great dislike to George Ensdell, 
 while her feelings for his younger brother 
 were of a diametrically opposite character. 
 She detested George Ensdell's flatteries — 
 flatteries which she saw were as impartially 
 bestowed upon Mrs. Winthrop and her 
 father as herself. He would be " all things 
 to all men," though not perhaps in the apos-
 
 1 84 MEG. 
 
 tolic sense of the word, and therefore he 
 should be nothing to her. She flung from 
 her, as she would so much base coin, his 
 little gallantries and studied compliments ; 
 while Arnold Ensdell, from his very gravity 
 and reticence, impressed her with a feeling 
 as near akin to reverence as her saucy wil- 
 ful little soul was capable of knowing. And 
 she pitied him too — he had been so unde- 
 servedly unfortunate ; and then that terrible 
 illness happening just when he might have 
 retrieved all his ill-luck at last ! Had he 
 gone away, it is doubtful whether the young 
 lady would not have forgotten the very fact 
 of his existence in six months, unless re- 
 minded of it by others ; but he remained, 
 and looked weak and pale for a long time 
 afterwards, and was likely to be poorer and 
 more unlucky than ever ; and so she let her 
 thoughts dwell on him with an anxious in- 
 terest that might possibly, if nobody else
 
 AN UNSUCCESSFUL MAN. 185 
 
 came in the way, lead to a warmer feeling 
 in time. 
 
 But it was not all pity, either. Arnold 
 Ensdell, with all his ill-success in life, was 
 not one of those men with whom a woman 
 would feel that, if she united her lot with 
 his, their rightful positions would have to be 
 reversed, and she, not he, must be the prop 
 and mainstay. Let his troubles be what 
 they might, he bore them manfully, with ^ 
 quiet, uncomplaining reticence, and seemed 
 endowed with a persistence that must con- 
 quer in the end. And Eleanor felt instinc- 
 tively that he was a better and truer man 
 than his brother, and that Arnold Ensdell, 
 in his poverty and struggles, was a nobler 
 creature than the dilettante artist, with his 
 easy fortunes and untroubled life. 
 
 Only one thing vexed her in him. Why 
 did he always treat her almost as a child — a 
 very lovely, gracious, winning child, but
 
 186 MEG. 
 
 still no more? There was ten years be- 
 tween them ; and what was ten years, 
 thought Miss Eleanor, between a woman of 
 seventeen and a man of twenty-seven ? They 
 were quite on an equality so far, if he would 
 only see it, and not pet and humour her, 
 just as he had done when she wore short 
 frocks and curls. If she could only teach 
 him better — only — only — in spite of all his 
 gravity, make him feel a little — well — yes, 
 just a little in love with her. He had had 
 so much trouble, and, she believed, so unde- 
 servedly — she would not like him to be very 
 miserable, — only just sufficiently so to make 
 him learn that his little cousin was a child 
 no longer.
 
 187 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 THE IO]TTLEDRUM IN THE STUDIO. 
 
 rriHE picture progressed ; so did the read- 
 -^ ingof "Ivanlioe." Meg developed into 
 a magnificent Rebecca, and Mr. George Ens-w 
 dell was more and more satisfied with the 
 manner in which it had occurred to him to 
 improve her. They had conversations after 
 the readings — conversations in which Mr. 
 Ensdell did his best to cultivate his model's 
 dormant perceptions. Meg was an apt pupil, 
 and he had not much trouble with her ; she 
 made rapid progress in refinement and man- 
 ner — ^had quite discontinued her little curt- 
 seys, and was beginning to improve in her 
 grammar. Mr. Ensdell was very well pleased
 
 188 MEG. 
 
 with her progress, and Mrs. Baring, to 
 whom the progress was equally perceptible, 
 lectured her daughter more energetically 
 than ever upon the evil consequences likely 
 to accrue therefrom. 
 
 It was July now. The Academy would 
 soon close, and Miss Eleanor Stanton, who 
 had not yet visited it, announced her inten- 
 tion to her father and Mrs. Winthrop of do- 
 ing so, and of calling on her cousin George 
 before they returned to Summerly, to see the 
 picture of which he had spoken so enthusiasti- 
 cally on his last visit to the Oaks. Nelly's curi- 
 osity had been roused by the manner in 
 which he had spoken of his model — a vara 
 avis J such as never yet had visited a studio, 
 or been limned on canvas. It had not oc- 
 curred to Mr. Ensdell, at the time he spoke, 
 that it was in him to develop his model's 
 latent capabilities, or he might have been 
 more reserved on the subject.
 
 THE KETTLEDRUM IN THE STUDIO. 189 
 
 Meg had improved very mucli in the last 
 three weeks ; but Mr. Ensdell would have 
 been more reticent in her praises now. Nelly 
 had no great faith in her cousin's artistic 
 powers ; but she had been led • to doubt her 
 own judgment of them, when she heard him 
 speak of the hours and days he meant to 
 devote to this picture, which, according to 
 him, would be the gem of the Academy 
 next year. , 
 
 Mr. Stanton assented, as he always did, 
 to every proposition of his daughter's that 
 was at all within reasonable bounds, and 
 Mrs. Winthrop, of course, was all compli- 
 ance ; and, therefore, they drove to the 
 Summerly station two days after Nelly had 
 expressed her wishes, and were in Trafalgar 
 Square about two o'clock. 
 
 '' Which will just give us three hours to 
 do the best in," said Nelly ; " we'll skip the 
 stupid ones, then look in on Cousin George,
 
 190 MEG. 
 
 and make him get up an impromptu kettle- 
 drum in our honour." 
 
 Mrs. Winthrop did not care for pictures, 
 and she wished with all her heart that the 
 young lady -she was employed to take 
 charge of did not either, for Nelly dragged 
 her from one to the other, expatiating on 
 their various beauties and excellences, till 
 the poor lady was exhausted. 
 
 Mr. Stanton had come there to please his 
 daughter, and having so far done his duty 
 as an obedient father^ took a seat opposite 
 one of Landseer's paintings, telling Nelly 
 she would know where to find him when 
 she was tired. But poor Mrs, Winthrop 
 could not do this ; she wished, in her 
 feeble, placid way, to do her duty as chape- 
 ron, and how was she to perform it by sit- 
 ting still ? There was nothing for it but to 
 keep by the young lady's side, and listen to 
 her raptures, and do her best to appear to
 
 THE KETTLEDRUM IN THE STUDIO. 191 
 
 enter into them. Presently Eleanor looked 
 up. 
 
 " You're tired, Mrs. Winthrop, and I don't 
 believe you care for pictures one bit ! 
 Why didn't you say so ? Go and sit down 
 by papa, and I can look at them just as well 
 by myself." 
 
 "My dear" — Mrs. Winthrop looked 
 mildly horrified — "it is quite out of the 
 question that I can allow you to go through 
 the rooms by yourself I will look at the 
 pictures as long as you please, and go 
 wherever you like ; but, you know, it will 
 not do for you to go alone. I am a little 
 tired — -just a little — but I wouldn't for the 
 world interfere with your enjoyment." 
 
 " Then I'll sit down too," said Eleanor ; 
 and looking at Mrs. Wmthrop again, she 
 was sure that she was even paler than 
 usual — " I'll sit down, and we'll leave ear- 
 lier than I said ; we shall be all the sooner
 
 192 MEG. 
 
 at Cousin George's, and have the longer 
 time to criticise his picture. I've no doubt 
 there are faults enough in it." 
 
 But Eleanor would have been glad to have 
 been moving about vnth the throng ; she 
 had not seen one half yet that she wanted 
 to see — but what could she do ? It would 
 be cruel to victimize poor Mrs. Winthrop 
 any longer ; but oh ! dear, if she could only 
 go on by herself, and look as long as she 
 pleased at those pictures of Millais and 
 Philips, of which the art critiques spoke so 
 highly ! What a nuisance it was to want so 
 much care taken of her ! She felt herself 
 getting very cross, and was tapping the floor 
 impatiently with her little foot, when Ar- 
 nold Ensdell came up and accosted her. 
 She sprang up with delight. 
 
 "I am so glad. Cousin Arnold ! — you'll 
 take care of me, won't you ? I've knocked 
 Mrs. Winthrop up already ; and as to papa,
 
 THE KETTLEDEUM IN THE STUDIO. 193 
 
 you know what liis way of going through a 
 picture-gallery is— just to look out for the 
 first comfortable seat he can find, and keep 
 there till it's time to go home. Mrs. Win- 
 throp, it's all right now — Mr. Ensdell will 
 take me about. We'll come back and find 
 you when we're tired. Now, Arnold, let's 
 go and look at that gem of Millais'." 
 
 Mrs. Winthrop would have opened her 
 mouth in mild remonstrance, but the young 
 lady had gone, taking her cavalier with her. 
 Mrs. Winthrop was frightened, and hoped 
 that Mr. Stanton would not consider she had 
 betrayed her trust in allowing Eleanor to 
 escape from her Hke this. What could she 
 do ? — get up and follow them ? But they 
 were out of sight already ; and if this gen- 
 tleman really was Eleanor's cousin, and, as 
 from the name she supposed, a brother of 
 that very agreeable Mr. Ensdell whom she 
 had met at the Oaks, and whose picture they 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 194 MEG. 
 
 were going to see, there could be no harm 
 done. At any rate, she must remain where 
 she was now, or Eleanor would never find 
 her, and she could only hope that Mr. Stan- 
 ton would keep his seat as long as she kept 
 hers. 
 
 Arnold Ensdell was accustomed to be 
 taken possession of by his cousin, and made 
 useful in any and every way that it seemed 
 right to her to make use of him. Both he 
 and his brother were on a footing at the Oaks 
 that their relationship alone would hardly 
 have entitled them to. Mr. Stanton had 
 other and much nearer relatives, from whom, 
 however, he rigidly kept aloof They had 
 disgraced themselves by trade — a low, sordid 
 thing in his eyes, from the contamination of 
 which the Ensdells, at least, were free ; and 
 the brothers, in spite of the self-complacency 
 and egotism of one, and the ill-luck of the 
 other, were in tone and manner essentially
 
 THE KETTLEDRUM IN THE STUDIO. 195 
 
 gentlemen ; a great charm in Mr. Stanton's 
 eyes. They gave no trouble, either, in their 
 visits, and were, each in his way, amusing and 
 well-informed. Very different ways, how- 
 ever ; the elder and Mr. Stanton agreed on 
 most points— their views on the generality of 
 matters coincided as much as might be ex- 
 pected from two men whose characters au 
 fond were by no means dissimilar ; while the 
 younger and he took antagonistic views ©f 
 almost everything. The pleasure of arguing 
 with Arnold was, however, a mild excite- 
 ment to Mr. Stanton. Like his daughter, he 
 sometimes found life at the Oaks, in spite of 
 of all the solid comforts and luxuries that sur- 
 rounded it, just a little dull. 
 
 Arnold's ideas on many things were cen- 
 sured by Mr. Stanton as Utopian and absurd, 
 but then there was the pleasure of combat- 
 ing them, a pleasure he could never have ex- 
 perienced had they been similar to his own. 
 
 o2
 
 196 MEG. 
 
 And it was these arguments with her fa- 
 ther that had impressed Nelly Stanton with so 
 profound a respect for her cousin. She agreed 
 with his opinions on everything ; the only 
 point on which she felt inclined to quarrel 
 was, that he never cared to broach them to 
 her. He never brought Mr. Stanton over 
 to his own view of any subject which they 
 might discuss ; but that was of little conse- 
 quence in Eleanor's eyes. He was right, all 
 the same, only papa would not own it. 
 
 " I am so glad you came, Arnold," she 
 said, as soon as they w^ere out of ear-shot of 
 Mrs. Winthrop ; " I shouldn't have seen half 
 the pictures else. I've knocked Mrs. Win- 
 throp up completely. The worst of it is, 
 that's so soon done, which is rather hard for 
 me — isn't it ?" 
 
 " And for her, too, I should say," replied 
 Arnold Ensdell with a half smile. ^' Do you 
 know, little cousin, if I were a forlorn female,
 
 THE KETTLEDRUM IN THE STUDIO. 197 
 
 and had to get my living, I should not 
 think holding the post of young lady's chape- 
 ron the easiest way of earning it." 
 
 Nelly knit her brows at this speech. 
 Always his little cousin — always a word or a 
 tone to remind her of the ten years differ- 
 ence between them. She was silent for half 
 a minute — a rare thing for Nelly ; then said 
 abruptly, 
 
 "We're going to George's studio. He 
 was almost raving, the last time he was at the 
 Oaks, of a new picture he was about to 
 begin — and a new model he had engaged to 
 sit for it. Have you seen either one or the 
 other?" 
 
 " Not the picture, and only a portrait of 
 the model. Very beautiful, as far as form and 
 colour go — though he tells me he has 
 scarcely done her justice ; if so, it must be a 
 face that one is fortunate to look upon once 
 in a life-time."
 
 198 MEG. 
 
 " Come with us, then, to his studio, and see 
 if you'll have that fortune this afternoon. 
 What a thing such beauty must be, when 
 even you can speak of it like that ! I am 
 longing to see the girl, and I feel half envi- 
 ous of her before I do." 
 
 "What, my little cousin! — you! did you 
 look in your glass this morning?" replied 
 Arnold Ensdell, bending down with a half 
 smile. 
 
 " I wasn't fishing for a compliment, 
 Arnold — there ! Who would think of com- 
 paring my mere prettiness with such beauty 
 as you speak of, or George described ? A 
 model, he said, that ought to make a painter ! 
 I do wish I had such beauty for my own. 
 I think it must be the best gift of all that can 
 fall to a woman." 
 
 He was always misunderstanding her. 
 While she was thinking how she would prize 
 the beauty that would enable her to be a
 
 THE KETTLEDRUM IN THE STUDIO. 199 
 
 painter's inspiration, he was fancying she 
 only wanted an idle compliment. Would 
 he never — never treat her as a rational 
 being ? — never learn that she had, at last, left 
 childhood behind, and 'was entering on her 
 life in earnest ? She was cross with him — 
 cross with herself, and Arnold was too blind 
 to see that she was so. He was always blind 
 where she was concerned. Kind? yes, he was 
 kind — the kindness of a grown man to a little 
 girl — -just the very kindness he had shown 
 her ten years ago. He was leading her now 
 from one picture to another, pointing out 
 those he thought best worth looking at, and 
 waiting patiently as long as she chose to feast 
 her eyes on them ; though it was his own 
 third visit, and with many of those that 
 interested her he must have been quite fa- 
 miliar. Kind, patient — oh! of course he 
 was ! and as ready to spoil her as her father. 
 But she could not take his kindness kindly, 
 
 'J
 
 200 MEG. 
 
 and was out of patience with his patience. 
 What a comfort it would have been to quarrel 
 with him ! 
 
 Mrs. Winthrop was very grateful when 
 Eleanor returned with her cousin. She had 
 been on thorns all the time, lest Mr. Stanton 
 should come up and find her alone. And her 
 conscience had reproached her, too ; the 
 poor, timid lady was so nervously anxious to 
 do her duty by her charge, and though it 
 would have been difficult to prevent Nelly's 
 rmmmg away, still she felt that she was to 
 blame in the matter. 
 
 Mr. Arnold Ensdell might be her cousin, 
 but still he might be guilty of making love ; 
 and Nelly was very young, but quite old 
 enough to be made love to. But Mr. Ensdell 
 looked a gentleman — surely he would not 
 abuse his opportunities, and do what no 
 chaperon could approve of under the circum- 
 stances ? Only, gentlemen sometimes forgot
 
 THE KETTLEDRUM IN THE STUDIO. 201 
 
 their good behaviour, when there was such 
 a face as Nelly's in the way. 
 
 She felt a little more satisfied with herself 
 when she saw Mr. Stanton's reception of 
 Arnold Ensdell — when they all joined that 
 gentleman, who had moved from one chair 
 to another, and so persuaded himself that he 
 had seen the Exhibition. It was clear that 
 he was not afraid of Mr. Arnold Ensdell 
 falling in love with his daughter, or would 
 not be very angry if he did, by the warm 
 greeting he gave him, and the manner uif 
 which he bade him take Nelly under his 
 charge, on their way from the Academy to 
 Courtmain Street, while he escorted Mrs. 
 Winthrop. 
 
 It was so short a distance, that even Mrs. 
 Winthrop thought cabs unnecessary when Mr. 
 Stanton suggested them to her. He was 
 always very considerate of her in these 
 minor matters, and Mrs. Winthrop was meek-
 
 202 MEG. 
 
 ly grateful accordingly. She had had hard 
 lines of it in her time, poor, faded lady, and 
 Mr. Stanton's small courtesies were very pleas- 
 ant to her. 
 
 They were not long in reaching 30, 
 Courtmain Street. Nelly had been silent 
 nearly all the way there ; she was a little 
 angry still with her cousin ; he had taken 
 too much pains in his explanations respect- 
 ing the pictures — " as if she couldn't judge 
 of them for herself!" But she brightened 
 up as they neared Mrs. Mayne's door. There 
 was the excitement of the possible chance of 
 seeing this vaunted model — this model whose 
 beauty was to make her cousin George a 
 painter at last, and whose face even Arnold 
 Ensdell had thought it would be something 
 to look upon once in a Hfe-time. 
 
 The weather had been so uncertain that 
 Mr. Stanton had not thought it advisable to 
 write to apprise George Ensdell of their
 
 THE KETTLEDRUM IN THE STUDIO. 203 
 
 coming ; but when last they had heard from 
 him, which was a week before, when he 
 wrote to decline an invitation to a croquet 
 party at the Oaks, he had given as his rea- 
 son for doing so, the incessant application he 
 was giving to his picture — " working at it 
 till the light fails me, and till my model, I 
 am afraid, must be quite tired out. How- 
 ever, she is blessed with wonderful endur- 
 ance ; and I think I must sometimes tax it to^ 
 the utmost." 
 
 The chances were, then, that he would be 
 still at his work, and the model not yet have 
 taken her departure. Nelly's heart beat 
 quick as the door opened, and she turned 
 on her cousin a face from which all the 
 summer clouds had departed. "Oh! Arnold, 
 shall we see this phoenix at last ; and shall 
 we find her a phoenix, after all ? " 
 
 They reached the studio, and Nelly's ques- 
 tion was answered.
 
 204 MEG. 
 
 Meg was there still, in Rebecca's attire, and 
 half kneeling over the imaginary Ivanhoe, 
 who had yet to be painted. She did not 
 move when the door opened — she was the 
 very perfection of a sitter, as Mr. George Ens- 
 dell often said. Let who would come or go, 
 Meg kept her pose and her expression un- 
 altered. There was no question as to her 
 beauty — it was a face, Nelly thought, to be 
 thankful for having looked upon, if only 
 once. And the superb dress, with its rich 
 colours and soft folds, harmonized so well 
 with it. She looked born to wear such 
 robes. A princess by Nature's patent. If 
 anything could make George Ensdell worth 
 the name of an artist, it must be the hav- 
 ing such a face as that before him. 
 
 Mr. Ensdell rose to welcome them, and as 
 soon as the first greetings were over, told 
 Meg he would release her now, as she had 
 been sitting so long. She was about to enter
 
 THE KETTLEDRUM IN THE STUDIO. 205 
 
 her little tiring room, for the purpose of don- 
 ning Cinderella's dress again, when Mr. Stan- 
 ton interposed. 
 
 " We shall do your picture better justice 
 if we compare it with the model, Ensdell ; 
 and we shall not be long — you might, per- 
 haps, like to resume your seance when 
 we have gone." 
 
 Mr. Ensdell motioned Meg to stay, and she 
 sat down quietly by the side table where the ^ 
 books lay. She had grown more familiar 
 with them in the last fortnight, and now 
 took up one, and appeared to be absorbed 
 in it. In reality she was watching the new 
 comers — or rather one of them, Nelly. She 
 did not care for the thin, pale, proud-look- 
 ing old gentleman, who was surveying the 
 picture through his eye-glass, and then com- 
 paring it with her. Nor for the pale lady 
 in black, who looked as if she had never 
 smiled in her life, and was ready to cry now
 
 206 MEG. 
 
 on the least provocation. She did not notice 
 ^ven Arnold's thoughtful, kindly face, nor 
 the sad, grave interest with which he was re- 
 garding her. All her attention was given to 
 the bright, happy, smiling girl, with her 
 dainty dress, who Meg could see was look- 
 ing at her with a pleased wonder at her 
 beauty. 
 
 Meg was very glad to be so looked at, and 
 by a girl who was herself so pretty and at- 
 tractive. Her heart warmed to her at once. 
 " I wish she would come and speak to me," 
 thought Meg; "perhaps she will — Miss Nor- 
 ton did at times." 
 
 She took note of everything Nelly wore. 
 It was only a simple summer dress, but it 
 was very fresh and pretty. And the girl 
 herself seemed so full of happiness — the 
 eyes and lips laughing almost unconsciously. 
 Even Meg, happy as she had thought the 
 young students, and much as she had envied
 
 THE KETTLEDKUM IN THE STUDIO. 207 
 
 them, felt that here was a girl whose path in 
 life was a pleasanter one than theirs. It was 
 something to be near her, and see the flutter 
 of her ribbons, and her dress, the delicate 
 gloves, the tiny bonnet, and the wealth of 
 bright glossy hair, and to catch the faint per- 
 fume from her handkerchief. She put Meg 
 in mind of the rose-buds she had once sold 
 — she was so like a flower in her freshness 
 and her apparent unconsciousness that there • 
 were such things as grief and trouble in the 
 world. 
 
 " Don't suppose she ever cried in her life," 
 thought Meg ; " very likely never had a 
 rough word spoken to her. It does seem 
 strange that some folks have life made so 
 easy to them, and others wish they'd never 
 had a life at all — I wonder what it is that's at 
 the bottom of it all ? " 
 
 The picture was looked at, commented on, 
 and praised. It really deserved to be so.
 
 208 MEG. 
 
 George Ensdell had, for the first time in his 
 life, painted a picture worth looking at ; and 
 that this was so, was not all due to Meg's 
 beauty. He had worked in earnest for once, 
 and astonished even himself by the result. 
 No doubt there was room for criticism, but 
 then none of the parties now looking on 
 were disposed to be critical ; and even Ar- 
 nold Ensdell, who had never found much to 
 say of his brother's paintings before, was 
 warm in his encomiums of this one. Mrs. 
 Winthrop of course admired it, as every one 
 else did, and echoed every one's opinion of 
 its various merits ; then she sat down, feeling 
 very tired, and wishing with all her heart 
 the young lady under her charge cared no 
 mor^ for pictures than she did. 
 
 Nelly had intended, as she had said, that 
 George Ensdell should get up an impromptu 
 kettledrum in their honour, but the model 
 and the picture between them had caused
 
 THE KETTLEDRUM IN THE STUDIO. 209 
 
 her to forget all about it, till she saw Mrs. 
 Winthrop's look of fatigue. 
 
 " She's dying for a cup of tea, and hasn't 
 the sense to say so ! Dear me ! I wonder 
 what ever that poor creature did before she 
 came in my way, to be taken care of." 
 Then she turned to Mr. Ensdell. " Have you 
 cups and saucers enough for us all, George ? 
 We came here for some tea, as well as to 
 look at your picture. Have you got a house- 
 keeper? — or who is it looks after you? Please 
 tell her you're going to have a kettledrum, 
 and I'll be the presiding genius of the affair. 
 Mrs. Winthrop, let us both take off our 
 bonnets, and make ourselves comfortable." 
 
 But Mrs. Winthrop did not feel at all com- 
 fortable. There was a great deal in Mr. 
 Ensdell's studio that strongly militated against 
 her ideas of propriety. There was a cast of a 
 Canova's Venus, whicli slie would have liked 
 to tlirow a blanket over ; and the Apollo 
 
 VOL. I. P
 
 210 MEG. 
 
 Belvedere gave her an uneasy feeling when- 
 ever she looked his way. She had the high- 
 est opinion possible of Mr. Stanton — he was 
 always so considerate and polite, but she 
 felt inclined, for once, to question his pru- 
 dence in bringing his daughter here. As to 
 the model — well, of course she was good- 
 looking enough, but she must be a young 
 person of very lax ideas, to come and sit for 
 hours alone with a single gentleman, and 
 let him stare at her face as hard as he pleas- 
 ed. Possibly she had her living to get, but 
 it would have been a much more respect- 
 able way of getting it to go into service. 
 
 And the lay figure made her quite ner- 
 vous to look at. She would not have such 
 a thing as that in her own house for the 
 world, it was enough to fill the servants' 
 heads, and other people's, too, with all sorts 
 of ideas about ghosts and similar uncomfort- 
 able things. She did not feel much re-
 
 THE KETTTEDRUM IN THE STUDIO. 211 
 
 assured, even wlien Nelly took her bonnet 
 away and placed it on the head of the lay 
 figure, putting her own on one of its hands, 
 and then sat down to pour out tea. The 
 tea was good, and the bread and butter thin ; 
 but it was such a singular place to take it in, 
 with Venus on one side, and Apollo on the 
 other, and that bold young woman, in such 
 a singular dress, sitting there all the time. 
 
 " I shall give Rebecca a cup," said Nelly,' 
 in a low tone; " I dare say she'll be glad of it ; 
 dont you think so, papa? Don't trouble 
 yourself, Arnold, I'll take it to her myself." 
 
 '' Keep where you are, Nelly," said Mr 
 Stanton, sternly ; "if you think the girl 
 wants some tea, either of your cousins will 
 attend to her." 
 
 He looked angry at the thought of Nelly's 
 doing so. It was not for his daughter to 
 come m contact with this low-born creature, 
 picked up from the streets, and paid so much 
 
 p2
 
 212 MEG. 
 
 an hour to let lier face be transferred to the 
 canvas. 
 
 Nelly looked puzzled and vexed. Why 
 should she not take the girl a cup of tea ? 
 She would have liked a nearer view of her, 
 and have been glad of an opportunity of ex- 
 changing a few words, but she could not say 
 so, lest the object of her admiration should 
 overhear her. Arnold Ensdell rose. 
 
 '^ I'll take her some tea, Nelly. Why didn't 
 you ask me ? You mustn't leave your place, 
 when you're doing the honours of the table." 
 
 He approached Meg, and handed her the 
 cup and some bread and butter. She took 
 them timidly, and looking up, saw his eyes 
 again fixed on her with the same grave in- 
 terest in them. Why did he look like that ? 
 Almost as if he felt sorry for her — sorry — 
 well, there liad been enough in her life to 
 be sorry for, if any one knew all about Joe, 
 and baby, and the hard phichings she had
 
 THE KETTLEDRUM IN THE STUDIO. 213 
 
 borne at times ; but he could tell nothing of 
 it all — and if he could, why should he care 
 for her? But it was very good of him to 
 bring her the tea and bread and butter, and 
 hand it to her as if she were a lady. She 
 supposed it was the fine clothes made him 
 do that. Ah ! how nice it must be to wear 
 such dresses always ! He wouldn't have 
 been so civil if he had seen her in her cotton 
 gown and straw bonnet. ^ 
 
 Mr. Stanton sipped his tea, and glanced 
 curiously at Meg occasionally. She certainly 
 did credit to Ensdell's taste. He was quite 
 disposed to agree in his praises of her, and ^ 
 at the same time to think that, in the course 
 of time, Mr. Ensdell might appreciate her 
 attractions in other ways than as a model. 
 Such things were^ and always would be. Mr. 
 Stanton was not inclined to think worse of 
 his cousin on that account. If his own day 
 for practising such little irregularities was
 
 214 MEG. 
 
 over, he was not at all inclined to censure a 
 younger man for still indulging in tlieni ; 
 provided, of course, they were conducted 
 with that due regard to the hienseances which 
 a gentleman ought to evince ; and had the 
 ladies not been present, he would not have 
 scrupled to express his opinion on the mat- 
 ter, and congratulate Ensdell upon the dis- 
 cernment he had shown in appropriating to 
 himself an object of such rare merit. Meg's 
 style pleased him. Where did she get such 
 hands from ? They were not a good colour, 
 but the shape was exquisite ; and they were 
 wonderfully small, too, for a girl who must 
 have used them in household work. Mr. 
 Stanton was a connoisseur in hands ; his own, 
 with their long fingers and filbert nails, small 
 size and waxen whiteness, were an object of 
 his daily admiration. It was a great trouble 
 to him that Nelly could not be persuaded to 
 take proper care of hers. She would garden
 
 THE KETTLEDRUM IN THE STUDIO. 215 
 
 without gloves, and so expose them to be- 
 coming tanned and freckled ; or she would 
 let them be scratched by the brambles, which 
 were so apt to tear her dresses, and her 
 hands at the best would never have been 
 such as he would have liked his daughter to 
 possess, while this girl had evidently been 
 born with fingers fit for a princess. The 
 turn of her head, too, and the way it was set 
 on her shoulders, was superb. How could 
 a creature born in Swamp Town look like 
 that ? It would be Ensdell's own fault it 
 he did not develop her capabilities — there 
 they were, if he only went the right way to 
 bring them out. 
 
 Tea was over, and Mr. Stanton pro- 
 nounced it time to go. Nelly took Mrs. 
 Winthrop's bonnet off the lay figure's head 
 — that lady had a nervous disinclination to 
 go near it herself — then putting on her own, 
 ran up to Meg.
 
 216 MEG. 
 
 " I must tell you how pleased I am with 
 that picture. I didn't think even Rebecca 
 could have been so beautiful as she is there/' 
 
 She was beaming with delight as she spoke. 
 Eyes and lips overflowing with her innocent 
 gladness. Somehow a great lump came into 
 Meg's throat. The young lady looked so 
 happy, and was — oh! she was sure — so good ! 
 She would have liked to kiss her, or, at least, 
 to touch her hand. Mr. Stanton came up, 
 looking more irate than Nelly had ever seen 
 him look before. Whatever Meg's capabili- 
 ties, they were not such as to make her fit 
 for his daughter to come in contact with. 
 He drew Nelly eagerly away without a word, 
 but with a look that was partly understood 
 by Meg. 
 
 " Thinks I'm not good enough, I suppose, 
 for the young lady to come near. Poor 
 girls and such as she ain't fit to be together. 
 Well, she don't think so — I never saw a face
 
 THE KETTLEDRUM IN THE STUDIO. 217 
 
 I liked so well. It's no use wishing, or I'd 
 wish with all my heart that it might always 
 look as happy as it did when she spoke to 
 me. I am so glad she likes the picture !" 
 
 And Meg would have prayed, instead of 
 wishing, that the light and the happiness 
 might dwell for ever in that glad young face, 
 had she ever in all her life been taught a 
 prayer.
 
 218 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 MR. ENSDELL IS OUT OF HIS ELEMENT. 
 
 11 TEG did not make her appearance at the 
 -^^■^ studio the next morning, greatly to 
 Mr. Ensdell's disappointment. Another day 
 or so, and it would be finished, as far as 
 Meg was concerned, and it was vexing to 
 have her fail him like this. Besides, inde- 
 pendent of the work he had in hand, Mr. 
 Ensdell missed the small excitement that 
 Meg's visits gave him. The developing process 
 had been going on very satisfactorily — he had 
 finished Ivanhoe, and had gone on to Kenil- 
 worth ; after which, he had treated Meg to a 
 little Shakespeare, and the results appeared 
 all that he could have wished. Meg's beauty
 
 MR. ENSDELL OUT OF HIS ELEMENT. 219 
 
 ripened under this educational process — the 
 dull languor that had shadowed it passed 
 away, and her tones and manner impercep- 
 tibly became more refined. She was trying 
 her best to speak as Mr. Ensdell spoke, and 
 realize her own idea of a lady's bearing. On 
 the whole, she succeeded very well, and En- 
 sdell was greatly pleased with her progress. 
 It was very vexing to have it interrupted 
 like this ; and then he perplexed himself to. 
 find out the reason. Had Meg played him 
 false, and consented to sit to another artist, 
 leaving him to finish Rebecca as he might ? 
 Or had she wearied of the work altogether, 
 and chosen to return to her former trade of 
 selling flowers? Possibly she might have 
 had other inducements to this course — have 
 fallen in love with some member of her own 
 class, and have been persuaded by him to 
 give up her visits to the studio, in order to 
 preside over his menage. Mr. Ensdell felt
 
 220 MEG. 
 
 something like a twinge of jealousy at the 
 idea ; and then the absurdity of such a feel- 
 ing in relation to Meg and her possible lover, 
 made him, for the first time, aware that the 
 relations between himself and his model had 
 assumed rather an uncommon character. It 
 was the necessity of developing her that had 
 done it — what would his Rebecca have been 
 like if he had left Meg just as he found her ? 
 The next morning came, but still Meg did 
 not make her appearance. Then Mr. Ens- 
 dell waxed wroth, as he looked at his Re- 
 becca's hair, which still wanted the gloss 
 and sheeniness of Meg s. How should he get 
 it, without her tresses to copy from ? There 
 was no hair to be met with like it. Then, 
 too, the drapery was not completed. Well, 
 the lay figure might do to arrange that upon, 
 but to work from a lay figure for his Re- 
 becca ! To have that stiff piece of mechan- 
 ism before his eyes instead of Meg s glowing.
 
 ME. ENSDELL OUT OF HIS ELEMENT. 221 
 
 supple form ! He felt that without his model 
 it would be impossible to complete his pic- 
 ture — it would not be worth the completing 
 — it would sink from work that was a pleas- 
 ure and delight to a sheer soulless drudg- 
 ery. No, if Meg did not come back, there 
 would be nothing for it but to throw up his 
 picture in despair, and turn Rebecca's face to 
 the wall. 
 
 He was standing in his studio, biting the 
 handle of one of his paint-brushes in his vex- 
 ation, when the postman's knock sounded at 
 the street-door, and a letter was brought in — 
 not a letter by any means like those Mr. 
 Ensdell was in the habit of receiving, the 
 envelope being of the cheapest make, while 
 the enclosure was a half sheet of note-paper, 
 strongly smelling of tobacco. Mr. Ensdell 
 turned it over superciliously, but the writing, 
 at leavSt, was clear and legible, and he read, 
 without any difficulty —
 
 222 MEG. 
 
 " 2, Prospect Place, Pleasant Road, Swamp Town. 
 July 20th, 186—. 
 
 " Sir, — I am requested by my pupil, Miss 
 Margaret Blount, to inform you that, owing 
 to the serious illness of her mother, she is 
 likely to be prevented for some time to come 
 from continuing her attendance at your 
 studio. Miss Blount begs me to express her 
 great regret at the inconvenience she may 
 cause you, and to assure you that she will 
 embrace the earliest opportunity of waiting 
 upon you. — I have the honour to be, sir, 
 " Yours most obediently, 
 
 " Frederic James Twiss." 
 
 This was how Mr. Twiss had rendered 
 Meg's tearful " Tell him I can't leave 
 mother, if it's ever so ; but I'm very sorry 
 for putting him out, and I'll come again as 
 soon as mother's better — if ever she is." 
 
 Would she ever be better ? That did not 
 seem very probable. Mr. Twiss had seen
 
 MR. ENSDELL OUT OF HIS ELEMENT. 223 
 
 more of illness and death in his life-time than 
 had Meg, and he looked upon her mother 
 as a marked woman. 
 
 " It's the drink that's done it," said Mr. 
 Twiss, sipping his gin and water ; '' she'd have 
 been good these twenty years else. It's the 
 drink that's done it. She couldn't keep from 
 it, and no more can I. A short life and a 
 merry one, or the merriest that a drop of 
 gin can give." 
 
 Mr. Ensdell read this letter twice, and 
 then thought over its contents. It was a 
 great bore — a very great bore — that the 
 woman should be ill ; but why couldn't the 
 girl get a nurse to attend to her? She 
 would be losing her colour, and dimming 
 her eyes, by doing so herself; and if her 
 mother died, take to crying, which would 
 spoil her looks more than ever. Where 
 was Swamp Town ? Could he find it out, 
 and prevail on the girl to resume her sittings,
 
 224 MEG. 
 
 and let him employ some one to attend her 
 mother ? He would ask Mrs. Mayne if she 
 could help him in the matter. She might 
 possibly have some knowledge of the girl's 
 residence. 
 
 " Swamp Town," said Mrs. Mayne thought- 
 fully, when he presented himself before her 
 with the letter in his hand. " Well, I never 
 was there, but I've some idea it's between 
 King's Cross and Kentish Town. If Rebecca's 
 not finished I'd certainly go, if I were you, 
 and tell the girl it's her positive duty to re- 
 sume her sittings till she is. The old woman 
 will be just as well looked to by any one 
 else. But if you do go to Swamp Town, I 
 would advise you to leave your watch at 
 home. It's not the safest place in the world 
 to take such an article into." 
 
 Mr. Ensdell thought it as well to follow 
 Mrs. Mayne's advice in the last particular, 
 and then started off northward on his quest
 
 MR. ENSDELL OUT OF HIS ELEMENT. 225 
 
 for his missing model. He took a Hansom, 
 but dismissed it when he approached the 
 neighbourhood of Swamp Town, and went 
 forward on foot. He almost shuddered as 
 he walked through the narrow roads that 
 the July sun had pulverized into layers of 
 black fine dust, into which he often sank 
 above his ankles. He seemed- to breathe 
 dust ; not the dust of Regent Street or 
 Rotten Row, but a dust that was essentially, 
 plebeian and coarse in its nature, being a 
 compound of bones, ashes, and indescribable 
 household debris. In the background he 
 could see looming the gigantic cinder-heaps, 
 and the figures of the women and girls em- 
 ployed on them. The small, wretched 
 houses, half ruinous already, although not 
 built a dozen years ; the black, sooty gardens, 
 where here and there a dwarfed sun-flower, 
 a hollyhock, or a few stunted cabbages, tried 
 to get what life and nourishment they could 
 
 VOL. L Q
 
 226 MEG. 
 
 from the parched earth and the foul, close 
 air, inspired him almost with horror. Was it 
 in one such as these that he should find Meg? 
 And the coarse, loud-voiced girls who stood 
 at the doors in their dirt and rags, were 
 these her associates ? Could his Rebecca 
 have anything in common with such sur- 
 roundings ? He had heard of roses bloom- 
 ing on dung-hills, and pearls being found 
 there. He felt as if he could believe such 
 stories if indeed he found his model in the 
 purheus of Swamp Town. 
 
 He looked around for Pleasant Road, but 
 when the wretched streets had been run up, 
 their architects had omitted to have their 
 designations painted on the corners, and he 
 had to inquire liis way of a dirty, half-clad 
 boy who was nursing a fat baby, nearly as 
 big as himself The gamiii directed him 
 to turn round the next corner, and he would 
 be in the road he asked for ; and then, as
 
 MR. ENSDELL OUT OF HIS ELEMENT. 227 
 
 Mr. Ensdell went on, he heard him cry out 
 loud to a fellow urchin who was digging in 
 the dust with an oyster-shell, as more aris- 
 tocratic children dig in the sand of the sea- 
 shore, 
 
 " My eye, Bill ! there's a swell ! I won- 
 der what he's up to here ?" 
 
 Mr. Ensdell did not feel exactly comfort- 
 able under this remark. He had come as 
 quietly dressed as a gentleman well could be,^ 
 but still he felt that his appearance was a 
 little out of place in Swamp Town, and 
 began to wish that he had not ventured there. 
 Not but that he might have brought his 
 watch safely — ruffianism was not the preva- 
 lent tone in Swamp Town, the men, for the 
 most part, earning their living either with 
 the dust-carts, or as costermongers. 
 
 With all its heathendom. Swamp Town 
 was not often disgraced by worse violence 
 than that involved in the beating of a wife, 
 
 q2
 
 228 MEG. 
 
 or a drunken quarrel between its male 
 residents. But all this squalor and wretched- 
 ness was insufferably distasteful to him. 
 Why were there such places ? What were 
 the police about, or the clergy, that they 
 should be allowed ? Why didn't some one 
 come and teach the wretched creatures to 
 wash their faces, and keep their houses 
 clean ? What else did all householders pay 
 church-rate and poor-rate for, but that such 
 excrescences as these on the face of the 
 earth should be avoided ? 
 
 It was somebody's duty to see to it, clearly, 
 but it did not at all appear to Mr. Ensdell 
 that it was his. The only thing for him to do 
 was, if possible, to induce his model to leave 
 this foul, ill-smellmg place, where her beauty 
 would be ruined, and the developing process, 
 which had been going on so satisfactorily, 
 might come to a stand-still altogether. If 
 he could only induce her to look at things
 
 MR. ENSDELL OUT OF HIS ELEMENT. 229 
 
 in a rational light, and leave her mother to 
 the charge of any of the neighbours, he 
 would pay them well for seeing to the old 
 woman, and place her at once where there 
 would be some chance of her mind ripening 
 and her manners refining. But to have her 
 come from this place to his studio, now that 
 he had once seen what Swamp Town really 
 was, he felt would be more than he could 
 bear. He should smell the dust, and think of . 
 the cinder-heaps whenever he saw her now, 
 if she remained here; and how should he be 
 able to paint her as Rebecca or Juliet, if he 
 should know that but an hour before she 
 might been receiving the gallantries of a 
 costermonger, or exchanging tender confi- 
 dences with one of the strapping Dulcineas 
 who had eyed him so curiously as he passed 
 their doors. No, at any and every cost Meg 
 must be got away. At any cost — well, that 
 would be a few pounds to him — perhaps a
 
 230 MEG. 
 
 great many — the developing process, as he 
 should like to carry it on, might be an expen- 
 sive one, but it must be carried on, neverthe- 
 less. And the cost to Meg — well, the escape 
 from the charge of her mother, which, no 
 doubt, she would rejoice in, and the giving 
 some time and thought to the perfecting her- 
 self as his model. Further cost ? — well, Mr. 
 Ensdell did not care to think too much of 
 that — time alone could show what that might 
 be. 
 
 He was now in Pleasant Road. Of course, 
 as it bore that name, it was, if anything, a 
 few shades more squalid in its wretchedness 
 than any other part of Swamp Town ; and 
 before he had gone many yards he came up 
 to Prospect Place, which was a row of six 
 small tenements, on the centre one of which 
 was painted the name- they collectively 
 claimed. The houses were not numbered, so 
 there was no telling which was No. 2 ; but as
 
 MR. ENSDELL OUT OF HIS ELEMENT. 231 
 
 the corner house of Prospect Place was a 
 small greengrocer s, with a little chandlery 
 business attached, he went in there and 
 asked for the house he wanted, and also if a 
 Mrs. Blount lived there. 
 
 ''It was only next door," the woman 
 of the shop said, looking at him a little curi- 
 ously; " and Mrs. Blount was there, ill a-bed 
 though, and not likely to leave it." 
 
 " She has a daughter, has she not?" asked 
 Mr. Ensdell. "Is she able to attend to 
 her?" 
 
 He wished to learn something about Meg 
 from her neighbours — the girl had always 
 been so silent and reticent about herself. 
 It was not, perhaps, just what a gentleman 
 should have done ; but Mr. Ensdell wa'nted 
 to know as much about his model's antece- 
 dents as possible. . It would assist the devel- 
 oping process. 
 
 " Yes, the girl was with her, and she'd
 
 232 MEG. 
 
 nothing else to do but see to her mother, now 
 Joe Blake and the baby had died. She was 
 a good daughter, that she was, though the 
 old woman was a bit tryin' at times." 
 
 " Joe Blake and the baby !" Well, what 
 else could he have expected from a girl 
 living in Swamp Town ? But they were 
 both out of the way now, which was the 
 best thing for all parties — Meg herself espe- 
 cially. It certainly would have been very 
 awkward if Joe had lived — he would have 
 been much more in the way than the old 
 woman was likely to be. Then Mr. Ens- 
 dell left the little dirty shop, and the woman 
 in it conceived a respect for Mrs. Blount such 
 as she had never before experienced. There 
 might be something, after all, in her remin- 
 iscences of better days gone by, if such a 
 gentleman as this came to inquire after her. 
 Perhaps he was one of her relations, who 
 had come to see after her, now she was ill.
 
 MR. ENSDELL OUT OF HIS ELEMENT. 233 
 
 Well, it might be a good thing for Meg if it 
 was so, especially as the old woman wasn't 
 likely to last much longer to be a trouble to 
 her. 
 
 Meanwhile, Mr. Ensdell was rapping with 
 his knuckles at the door of Number Two. 
 There was no knocker ; in all Swamp Town 
 you would not have found such a mark of 
 civilization ; and he might have knocked 
 some time — for the woman of the house, who 
 occupied the lower apartments, was out, and 
 Meg was upstairs with her mother — ^had it. 
 not been for the woman from the green- 
 grocer's shop, who came outside, and called 
 loudly, "Meg — Meg Blount, come down, 
 and open the door. Here's a gentleman as 
 wants to see you !" 
 
 " Meg Blount^'' and the writer of the letter 
 he had received that morning spoke of his 
 pupil as Miss Blount; and yet there had 
 been a Joe Blake and a baby. Mr. Ensdell
 
 234 MEG. 
 
 drew his own conclusions from these facts, 
 but they did not make him at all less dis- 
 posed to do his best for the improvement of 
 his model. Of course, if Joe had been 
 alive, it might have been another matter ; 
 but fortunately Joe was out of the way. 
 
 Presently the door opened, and Meg stood 
 before him. She looked pale and heavy- 
 eyed, as if she had been up all night, which, 
 in truth, was the case ; but pleased to see 
 him, although surprised. 
 
 " It is very good of you to come, sir," she 
 said ; " I — I'm so sorry I wasn't able to 
 leave mother ; and I don't know when I 
 shall be, either, she's that bad ; but I'll come 
 — indeed I will, sir, as soon as ever I'm 
 able.'' 
 
 " I hope so, Meg," replied Mr. Ensdell ; 
 "but can't I speak to you indoors? Have 
 you no place you could ask me into for a 
 few minutes ?"
 
 MR. ENSDELL OUT OF HIS ELEMENT. 235 
 
 It was not very pleasant to be standing 
 in the street, up to his ankles in dust, with 
 the woman from the greengrocer's shop lis- 
 tening to every word, and half a dozen 
 urchins of either sex gathered round. Meg 
 hesitated, then she said, 
 
 " Would you mind coming up, sir? Mo- 
 ther's fast asleep — the doctor's given her 
 some stuff to make her — ^we shan't wake 
 her." 
 
 Ensdell followed Meg through the wretch- 
 edly dirty lower room, with all the sordid 
 litter of poverty and unthrift about it, up 
 the steep, narrow stairs, and on to the 
 small landing, from which two doors opened. 
 At one of these he saw a man's head pro- 
 truding. It was dirty, unshaved, and with 
 a small black pipe in the mouth — a pipe 
 evidently unused to the consumption of any 
 but the coarsest and rankest tobacco. Ens- 
 dell remembered the aroma that had hung
 
 236 MEG. 
 
 around his letter, and concluded the head 
 must belong to the writer. Was Meg then 
 his pupilj and had she already tried to im- 
 prove herself? There was some hope of 
 her if she could do it under such disad- 
 vantages ; but, still, it was all the more in- 
 cumbent on him to remove her from these 
 associations. Fancy the owner of that head 
 having anything to do with Meg's develop- 
 ment ! 
 
 Meg opened the door of her own apart- 
 ment and took him in. It was an agree- 
 able surprise to Ensdell, after the squalor of 
 the room below, and the scenes through 
 which he had passed. The room, at any 
 rate, was clean, and the broken vase had 
 flowers in it, while Meg's improved circum- 
 stances had enabled her to purchase two 
 cheap plaster figures to accompany it. On 
 a little table were some books — Meg had got 
 beyond Mavor's Spelling by this time — and a
 
 MR. ENSDELL OUT OF HIS ELEMENT. 237 
 
 pen and ink, and a copy-book, open where 
 she had been writing while her mother 
 slept. Ensdell looked at the writing, and 
 took up the books — a Webster's Reader and 
 a Darnell's Grammar. She was evidently 
 studying in earnest — meeting his wishes 
 half-way. If he only once got her from 
 Swamp Town, he should find his work easy 
 enough. 
 
 " So you've begun to learn to write, 
 Meg ?" he said. " Who teaches you ?" 
 
 " Mr. Twiss, in the next room ; and I was 
 getting on well with my reading, and he'd 
 just begun to teach me grammar, when mo- 
 ther took bad. I can't leave her to go to 
 him, though he is so near, so I must give 
 that up for a bit." 
 
 " But couldn't you find anyone else to 
 nurse your mother, Meg ? T want you to 
 come to me, you know." 
 
 Meg shook her head.
 
 238 MEG. 
 
 " Mother's queer, she is, now she's ill, 
 and she never got on to say well with the 
 neighbours. No, I couldn't leave her, un- 
 less I was downright obliged, and I've got 
 enough money to go on with." 
 
 " Oh ! as to the money, Meg, I'll stand 
 the expenses ; only don't go wasting your 
 time, and spoiling your looks, by stopping 
 in here. What does the doctor say about* 
 your mother ? How long is she likely to be 
 ill?" 
 
 Meg looked very grave. 
 
 " Not for long, I'm afraid. He says she'll 
 never get no better. I shan't be hindered 
 long, sir, from coming to you." 
 
 The bed in which Mrs. Blount lay was 
 against one side of the room, and a curtain 
 being drawn before it, screened its occupant 
 from Mr. Ensdell's eyes ; but Mrs. Blount 
 had not been so soundly asleep as Meg had 
 thought, for she was now heard exclaiming,
 
 MR. ENSDELL OUT OF HIS ELEMENT. 239 
 
 fretfully, "Who's that, Meg? — who have 
 you got gossiping and hindering you, when 
 you ought to be looking to me ? " 
 
 Meg went up to her. 
 
 " It's the gentleman, mother, from 
 Courtmain Street, come to see if I could 
 go to be painted. I've just been telling him 
 I can't leave you while you're bad." 
 ♦ "Why don't he come and ask me if I 
 can spare you ? — it wouldn't be more than 
 civil. But it's a long time since any one 
 thought it worth while to be civil to me. 
 You're as bad as the rest, Meg, or you'd have 
 brought him to me as soon as he came." 
 
 Mr. Ensdell went up to the bedside. 
 Mrs. Blount was looking flushed and fretful 
 — so flushed, that few eyes but a medical 
 man's could have seen how seriously ill she 
 was. She was a handsome woman still, al- 
 though drink and the hard life she had led 
 made her look old before her time. Not
 
 240 MEG. 
 
 much like Meg ; hers had always been a 
 beauty of a coarser, bolder kind, and the 
 hair, which was now thickly streaked with 
 grey, had been a light brown, instead of the 
 glossy black of Meg's. The eyes, too, were 
 unlike. Mrs. Blount's were of a pale greyish 
 blue, while Meg's were almost as dark as 
 her hair. But it was the type of the face 
 wherein the difference most consistedi^ 
 Meg's was of a higher kind altogether — 
 even in its dreamiest languor you could de- 
 tect the latent soul, that only needed rous- 
 ing; while in Mrs. Blount's you would be 
 troubled to find traces of a soul at all. In 
 her best days she could have been nothing 
 but a handsome animal, and have woke no 
 higher emotions than an animal perfect in 
 its kind may rouse. 
 
 Mr. Ensdell was very courteous as he 
 bent over her, and inquired, with an air of 
 the utmost interest, after her health. But
 
 MR. ENSDELL OUT OF HIS ELEMENT. 241 
 
 then, to be courteous, was a habit of his, and 
 distasteful as Meg's mother was to him, as 
 being a hindrance to Meg's advancement, 
 and the progress of his picture, still it cost 
 him no effort now to make his inquiries ap- 
 pear as if dictated by his solicitude for her 
 well-being. 
 
 He was very much annoyed with her for 
 waking just then — it would be impossible for 
 him to persuade Meg to leave her mother, ^ 
 when that mother was awake to overhear 
 every word he said ; but still, as she was 
 awake, there was nothing for it but to make 
 the best of matters, and be as civil and con- 
 ciliatory as possible. He might have the good 
 fortune to find her asleep the next time. 
 
 Mrs. Blount was flattered by his politeness, 
 and entered into a long catalogue of her 
 ailments, breaking off in the midst to scold 
 Meg for not giving the gentleman a chair. 
 Then Mr. Ensdell had to sit down and 
 
 VOL. I. R
 
 242! MEG. 
 
 listen to the melancholy recital — with the 
 hot July sun pouring into the room, and the 
 voice of the sufferer growing more and more 
 querulous as she proceeded with her tale. 
 She had a new listener, and she was resolv- 
 ed to make the most of him. He was too 
 rare a luxury to be let slip easily. 
 
 It was a great bore the having to sit there 
 in that close, poor little room, with the hot 
 sun pouring on his back, and the dust 
 through which he had waded half choking 
 him, as it rose from his feet to his head. He 
 smelled that foul black dust — should he ever 
 forget the smell ? — it was working into the 
 very pores of his skin — should he ever be 
 able to purify himself from it ? Would that 
 dreadful woman never have done with the 
 long string of her complaints, and release 
 him at last. What a price he was paying for 
 the development of his model ! 
 
 At last Mrs. Blount grew tired, and closed
 
 MR. ENSDELL OUT OF HIS ELEMENT. 243 
 
 her eyes. Then Mr. Ensdell rose to take his 
 leave. Meg followed him to the street-door, 
 and he took the opportunity of urging upon 
 her to resume the sittings, and employ some 
 one else to nurse her mother ; but Meg was 
 firm. 
 
 " No one ever will bear with her like me 
 — she's that contrary ; and it won't be for 
 long, you know, sir." 
 
 And Meg looked up at him with a pitiful 
 smile, and the tears in her eyes — she actu- 
 ally cared for the woman upstairs 1 
 
 R 2
 
 / 
 
 / 
 
 244 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 THE CHAPEL OF EASE. 
 
 THERE was not mucli society at Sum- 
 merly — at least, not much that Mr. 
 Stanton thought worthy of the name ; but 
 then his ideas of society were a little out of 
 date at the present day — he was a gentle- 
 man of many descents himself, and he could 
 not understand gentlemen of two or three, 
 or of no descent at all. There were a few 
 families of long standing in the neighbour- 
 ing parishes, and with these Nelly and him- 
 self chiefly associated. He did his duty, as 
 he conceived it, however, in Summerly ; 
 gave away coals and blankets at Christmas, 
 subscribed to the Clothing Club, and the
 
 THE CHAPEL OF EASE. 245 
 
 little local charities, patronized the Curate, 
 and was on very friendly terms with the 
 Rector. It was his duty, as Master of the Oaks, 
 and the personage of chief importance in 
 Summerly, to do all these things ; and the 
 duty not being a very difficult one, he per- 
 formed it. With the Rector, indeed, the 
 duty took the form of a pleasure, for Mr. 
 Vernon was the only person in the parish, 
 with the exception of himself, to whom, in» 
 his heart, Mr. Stanton accorded the degree 
 of gentleman. 
 
 There was no mistake about Mr. Vernon's 
 pedigree. The very name was enough, in 
 Mr. Stanton's opinion, to support his claims 
 to it, but every one knew the branch of the 
 Vernons from which the old Rector came ; 
 and his right to the imposing crest with which 
 he sealed his letters. Mr. Stanton, with a 
 proud humility, was content to own himself 
 second in the matter of family to the Rector.
 
 246 MEG. 
 
 He thought a great deal more of the mat- 
 ter tlian the old gentleman did himself. 
 He was quiet, simple, and unostentatious 
 enough — a good man in his way, and a 
 clever one ; but his goodness was not of the 
 sort most calculated to benefit others, nor his 
 talents of the kind likely to be most use- 
 ful in a country village. He did his duty, 
 too, after his own fashion, in Summerly, as 
 Mr. Stanton did his ; and his duty, even ac- 
 cording to his own lights, was not an easy 
 one ; but still, when he had performed it to 
 the best of his power, it was a poor day's 
 work after all. 
 
 Summerly Church and its Rector had a 
 good deal in common. The church was a 
 picturesque building enough outside, stand- 
 ing a little w^ay from the village street, or 
 rather road, which wound its steep way 
 along from the little pretentious chapel of 
 ease a mile and a half above the church,
 
 THE CHAPEL OF EASE. 247 
 
 to the bustling town of Milford half a 
 mile below it. There was the village pump 
 in front, a favourite resort for gossips, and 
 a standing sign of the deficiencies of house- 
 hold comfort in the surrounding cottages. 
 Inside, the church had a neglected, uncared- 
 for .look, with all the faults and little of the 
 beauty belonging to the old time in which it 
 had been erected. High pews, where those 
 who liked could sleep comfortably, undis- 
 turbed by the censorious looks of those 
 around ; bare whitewashed walls, small- 
 paned windows, some of which had once 
 boasted of stained glass, but that had long 
 since all been broken, and its place filled by 
 colourless material ; so old, so bare, so ugly, 
 that to have likened it to a conventicle or a 
 barn would have seemed almost a compli- 
 ment. 
 
 Like his church, the Rector was out of 
 date. His faults and inefficiencies were
 
 248 MEG. 
 
 those of the old school, not the modern. 
 Not of that very old school which approved 
 of fox-hunting, and gave its name to par- 
 son's port; but of the milder, more decorous 
 school which immediately succeeded it, and 
 whose sins were more of omission than of 
 active wrong doing. He was behind the 
 times altogether, people said — the Church- 
 people of course the most readily of all — 
 was dull and heavy in the pulpit, and inert 
 out of it. So far from wishing to see his 
 church renewed and renovated, and brought 
 into all the elaborate order which would so 
 have rejoiced the heart of a High Church- 
 man, he could not bring himself to have it 
 kept with common regard to decency; while 
 as to the state of the parish, it was matter 
 of note that the Summerly poor were the 
 most demoralized and dissolute for miles 
 around. 
 
 This was just what the High Church party
 
 THE CHAPEL OF EASE. 249 
 
 said — the Higli Church party who belonged 
 mostly to the chapel of ease at the top of 
 the hill, and who were the most pitiless and 
 unsparing in their remarks upon the old 
 Rector and his shortcomings. 
 
 Well, he had enough to answer for, per- 
 haps. He was the wrong man in the wrong 
 place, doing work that was never meant for 
 such as him to do, and, therefore, doing it 
 ill ; but still he had one virtue that the 
 High Church party certainly were in want 
 of, and never evinced it more than when 
 they spoke of their ecclesiastical superior — 
 the Christian grace of charity. It may be 
 that the old Rector, conscious of his own 
 deficiencies, was more tolerant of those of 
 others,- that feeling he had made a false step 
 at the very outset of his career, which had 
 made all things henceforth go wrong with 
 him, he was more patient with the false 
 steps of others, knowing well that even in
 
 ^50 MEG. 
 
 this life sucli aberrations from the right 
 are surely punished. 
 
 The wrong-doing of the Rector had been 
 a common one enough, and when he com- 
 mitted it, it had not seemed to him that he 
 was doing a very heinous thing. There was 
 a living of eight hundred a year in the fa- 
 mily, and it seemed only right that it should 
 not go out of it. A Vernon had always 
 held it, and the Vernon who thirty years 
 ago had seemed the fittest person for the 
 office was the present Rector, who passed 
 through his collegiate career, became or- 
 dained, and in due time stepped into the 
 pulpit of Summerly. His own inclinations 
 had pointed to the bar. He had a natural 
 aptitude for the study of the law, and 
 though, owing to a nervous hesitation in his 
 delivery, he would never have distinguished 
 himself as a speaker, he would have made 
 a first-rate chamber counsel. But the elder
 
 THE CHAPEL OF EASE. 251 
 
 Vernons thought of the living, and thought, 
 too, that it would be a very long time be- 
 fore the bar would give James Vernon 
 house, and glebe, and eight hundred a year; 
 and then, too, there was the fault in his 
 delivery — it would effectually preclude him 
 from attaining the higher prizes in the law, 
 and mere chamber practice would not have 
 satisfied them for a Vernon. He could 
 speak well enough for a country pulpit, 
 where the two or three families of good 
 standing among his hearers would, of 
 course, make all due allowances for the de- 
 ficiencies of one in their own position ; and 
 the bulk of his congregation consisting, as it 
 does in all rural neighbourhoods, of farmers 
 and their labourers, would be satisfied 
 easily enough. Two sermons a day, and 
 the prayers ordered by the Church, would 
 meet their requirements; and so long as they 
 had the sermons, they were not likely to be
 
 252 MEG. 
 
 very critical either as to their dehvery, or 
 the matter contained in them. Such a con- 
 gregation would know better than to criti- 
 cise its betters. 
 
 So James Vernon took to the Gospel in- 
 stead of the Law, and in so doing took the 
 first wrong step which set all his life awry for 
 ever after. He was a poor preacher, and a 
 worse pastor. He had the best intentions 
 in the world, and the worst way of carrying 
 them out. He wished the poorer members 
 of his flock to lead good, orderly lives — be 
 pure, honest, sober, send their children to 
 school, and bring them to church ; but how 
 to set about realizing these desirable ends 
 was more than he could tell. He visited 
 the cottages, and was at a loss for words to 
 say when he got there ; he told the people 
 they ought to come to church, but it was 
 out of his power to do anything to attract 
 them thither ; his sermons might have been
 
 THE CHAPEL OF EASE. 253 
 
 very good, had they been audible, and de- 
 livered to a congregation as well versed in 
 ecclesiastical matters as himself; but they 
 were infinitely too good for the village 
 folks he had to deal with. Kind, courte- 
 ous, and tolerant as he was, he was out of 
 place in Summerly. His proper position 
 would have been in chambers in the Tem- 
 ple, or, better still, in the rooms of a fellow 
 at College. It might have been well had 
 he never left the walls of his Alma Mater — 
 he was too thoroughly at home in his library 
 to be at home anywhere else, and in Sum- 
 merly there was much less need of a pro- 
 found scholar than of a busy parish priest ; 
 there was something more needed than a 
 man who possessed the passive virtues only. 
 However well-meaning a man Mr. Vernon 
 might be, there were more souls than his 
 own to be saved in the parish, and more 
 work needed doing in it, with its hundreds
 
 254 MEG. 
 
 of heavy, half-awakened Saxon natures than 
 he could ever cope with. 
 
 But the crying sin of the Rector, in the 
 eyes of the High Church party at least, was 
 his tolerance of Dissenters. He was posi- 
 tively civil to them — had called on the Dis- 
 senting minister when he first came to the 
 neighbourhood, as he might have done on 
 any other gentleman. Nor did the matter 
 rest there. He was fond of children, and 
 petted Mrs. Harley's two little girls when- 
 ever he met them, sent her presents of 
 game, and would occasionally drop in for a 
 chat with her. I think nothing that he 
 could have done would more completely 
 have alienated the minds of the High Church 
 party from him. He had much better, as 
 far as they were concerned, have broken 
 any one of the Ten Commandments. There 
 might be forgiveness for a murderer, but 
 how could there be any for a Churchman
 
 THE CHAPEL OF EASE. 255 
 
 and a priest who forgot himself so far as to 
 recognise a Dissenting minister as his neigh- 
 bour and fellow-worker. 
 
 In his heart, perhaps, poor Mr. Vernon 
 felt that the Dissenting minister was a 
 worker to better purpose than himself, and 
 was glad, indirectly, to atone for his own 
 shortcomings by such few acts of courtesy 
 and kindness as he could show to a labourer 
 more worthy than he ; or it might be only 
 the innate courtesy of his nature, which 
 would not suffer him to think evil of a man 
 for holding views opposed to his own, or 
 permit him to show discourtesy to those 
 whose position he was sure exposed them to 
 too much already. There was a latent chi- 
 valry in the old gentleman's nature which 
 prompted him to give what countenance he 
 might to a man whose lines had by no means 
 fallen in pleasant places when they fell in 
 Summerly ; to be gracious to children and
 
 256 MEG. 
 
 women, even if they dwelt in a chapel 
 house; and to recognise a lady, and give 
 her her due meed of courtesy, let her hold 
 what tenets she would, and worship where 
 she might. 
 
 A good man, and a true gentleman, but 
 who all his life was suffering from and ex- 
 piating his own fatal weakness at the com- 
 mencement of his career, and the false posi- 
 tion into which he had been thrust by family 
 expediency. 
 
 And, unhappily, he could not suffer alone. 
 The wrong he had done, the false step he 
 had taken, must be atoned for by others be- 
 sides himself The wrong man in the wrong 
 place can nowhere do worse harm than 
 when he is a pastor unfitted for his work. 
 
 Years ago, Mr. Vernon had taken unto 
 himself a wife, with some dim idea that in so 
 doing he should secure not only a helpmate 
 for himself, but a valuable assistant in the
 
 THE CHAPEL OF EASE. 257 
 
 parish work ; who might, to some extent, 
 
 atone for his own incapacities for it. She 
 
 might look after the schools — a thing to 
 
 which he knew himself quite unequal, his only 
 
 notion of managing children being a system 
 
 of persistent spoiling ; whilst he felt that the 
 
 youngest child in the school was more than 
 
 a match for him if it came to a question of 
 
 excuses for non-attendance. It must have 
 
 been a stupid urchin indeed, and the Rector 
 
 • 
 knew it, who could not find an excuse 
 
 plausible enough for him. And the cha- 
 rities — those charities the judicious ad- 
 ministration of which he despaired of, 
 knowing how readily he was imposed upon, 
 could be dispensed much better by a lady. 
 Women were keener and quicker in such 
 things — could detect waste and unthrift in 
 those village housewives who had always a 
 tale ready to blind liim with ; and even the 
 church itself would be better cared for. He 
 
 VOL. 1. s
 
 258 MEG. 
 
 had an idea that cobwebs and dirt were not 
 the fittest adjuncts of a place of worship ; 
 but lie had really very little more notion of 
 how it should be kept in proper order than 
 he had of regulating the economy of his own 
 home. He had installed the gardener's wife as 
 housekeeper in the one, and the sexton was 
 expected to look after the otlier. Both 
 housekeeper and sexton failed in their duty 
 — home and church were equally dirty and 
 neglected ; and the Rector had an uncom- 
 fortable consciousness that they were so, and 
 a great hope that when he brought a wife 
 home to Summerly, things would be managed 
 very differently. 
 
 In a little time his hopes were realized. 
 He had chosen his wife more wisely than 
 his profession, and Mrs. Vernon seemed 
 likely to be a very efficient helpmate. But 
 things were not to go well with the Rector. 
 Within a year after marriage, Mrs. Vernon
 
 THE CHAPEL OF EASE. 259 
 
 fell into a state of ill-health, which before 
 long confined her to two rooms of the Rec- 
 tory, and put a stop for ever to the career 
 of active usefulness upon which she had en- 
 tered. The Rector was a patient and a ten- 
 der husband, though he had married more 
 on account of his parish than himself He 
 spared neither cost nor care — first in the 
 hope of restoring his wife to health, and 
 next to lighten the burden of her invalidism, 
 as much as possible. But by degrees he 
 drifted back into the old careless track, from 
 which the influence of his wife had led him 
 for a time. The sexton had his own way 
 in the church, which looked more dreary 
 and neglected than ever; the children stayed 
 away from the schools whenever it suited 
 their own inclinations or their mothers' that 
 they should do so ; the beer-shops flourished 
 and multiplied, and the charities were dis- 
 pensed with as little discrimination as ever. 
 
 s2
 
 260 MEG. 
 
 There was not much to choose between 
 those who needed them, the Rector thought, 
 as far as deserving went — and we should all 
 come badly off if we only had our due. 
 After all, it was more a question of who 
 needed help the most than of w^ho merited it. 
 Who was he, that he should judge too closely 
 the shortcomings of his poorer brethren ? 
 
 So dirt and drunkenness reigned uncheck- 
 ed in Summerly. The girls bore nameless 
 children, and nursed them at their cottage 
 doors with no more sense of wrong-doing 
 than if they had dwelt in Swamp Town, for 
 all their attendance as children at the Na- 
 tional and Sunday schools. The men spent 
 half their earnings in beer, and the women 
 quarrelled with them — which was not sur- 
 prising, but did not make matters more 
 attractive at home — scolded their children, 
 gossiped at their doors, let their houses and 
 themselves ^o equally uiicared for, and vied
 
 THE CHAPEL OF EASE. 261 
 
 with each other as to the extent to which 
 they could most readily impose upon the 
 Rector's benevolence. 
 
 It was all wrong ; he felt and knew it, 
 but he was powerless to set the wrong right. 
 It was not in him. 
 
 The family from the Oaks always went 
 to the old church of Summerly. The ser- 
 vants sat in a pew below, and Mr. Stanton, 
 his daughter, and Mrs. Winthrop, in a kind 
 of box opposite the pulpit, about twelve feet 
 from the ground, and to which a small stair- 
 case outside the building led. The curtains 
 were generally half drawn ; Mr. Stanton 
 said it was not pleasant to be stared at by 
 the people below, and Mrs. Winthrop agreed 
 with him. So in the hot summer days, 
 while the Rector wearily stumbled through 
 his sermons, Mr. Stanton nodded on one 
 side of his pew, and Mrs. Winthrop dozed 
 on the other, Nelly, the while, thinking her
 
 262 MEG. 
 
 own thoughts, and weaving her own dreams. 
 It was just a quiet time for the purpose ; the 
 Rector's voice, while it lulled her father and 
 Mrs. Winthrop to repose, soothed her into 
 a meditative mood, which there was nothing 
 here to interrupt as at home. No cat to 
 tease, no dog to chase, no flowers to gather 
 — nothing but the curtained and well-cush- 
 ioned pew and the drowsy hum of the Rec- 
 tor's voice as he quoted from the Fathers, 
 and waded on to his sixthlys and his 
 seventhlys. 
 
 Nelly would have liked to have gone to 
 St. Paul's, the chapel of ease at the further 
 extremity of Summerly. Since the new 
 Curate came there, she had heard much of 
 the improvement in the singing, the chant- 
 ing the responses, the decorations of the 
 altar, and the superior style altogether in 
 which the modern St. Paul's managed mat- 
 ters, compared with the ancient St. Mary's.
 
 THE CHAPEL OF EASE. 263 
 
 Only she would have grieved to desert the * 
 old Rector. He was one of her very earliest 
 friends, had spoiled her from a child, and 
 did his best to spoil her now, only in an- 
 other manner. 
 
 The singing, the flowers, the responses, 
 were very attractive at St. Paul's ; but Nelly 
 would not have liked to desert the Rector 
 for them. Mr. Stanton, too, would have 
 been reluctant to have gone to St. Paul's. 
 It was a longer drive for the horses — thaf 
 was one thing, and the road was up hill all 
 the way ; and besides, there was the old 
 family pew at St. Mary's, with its solemn 
 dignity of cushions and curtains. St. Paul's 
 had nothing to give him like that, there be- 
 ing little to distinguish the seats from one 
 another, but their respective nearness to the 
 pulpit. And St. Paul's was new, and since 
 Mr. Stanton had left Bohemianism behind 
 him, he had eschewed newness as much as
 
 264 MEG. 
 
 possible. But the people who assembled 
 at St. Paul's were new likewise, — stock- 
 brokers, wealthy tradesmen, and men of a 
 similar class, who had settled at Summerly 
 with their families, and went to and from 
 London daily, to follow their avocations. 
 
 Mr. Stanton shrank from associating ev^n 
 when he worshipped with such as these. 
 The old church, with its unique family pew 
 appropriated to himself, with the farmers 
 and the small tradesmen of the village be- 
 low, was far more congenial to him. He 
 was a grand seigneur there. At St. Paul's 
 they might not have been so ready to re- 
 cognise his seigneurship — there were those 
 amongst its congregation who might have 
 thought their annual thousands, even al- 
 though earned in commerce, entitled them 
 to rank as his equal, and brush shoulders 
 with him. But he was civil to the Curate, 
 as it behoved a gentleman of his standmg to
 
 THE CHAPEL OF EASE. 265 
 
 be, and Mr. Marsh was, he said, ^* a respect- 
 able man, who knew his place," and whom, 
 therefore, Mr. Stanton honoured by asking 
 once a year to dinner. 
 
 Mr. Stanton was not a gentleman who 
 would have called a Curate a " respectable 
 man," without good reasons for so doing. 
 But Mr. Marsh struck him as that, and no- 
 thing more. He was well-behaved ; but it 
 was not the behaviour of a gentleman accus- 
 tomed to mix on equal terms with others ; 
 and he was not at his ease in a drawing-room 
 — at least, not such a drawing-room as that 
 of the Oaks. Mr. Marsh dressed trimly, and 
 was punctilious in his observance of social eti- 
 quettes — (as far as he knew them) — and the 
 Rector flung his clothes on, wore them till 
 they were threadbare, and, with all his court- 
 esy, took things more easily than the Curate; 
 but there was no question that they had 
 been reared in very different schools, and
 
 266 MEG. 
 
 while the merest tyro in such matters would 
 have liad no hesitation in writing Mr. Ver- 
 non down at once as gentleman, there might 
 have been some hesitation in according that 
 title to the Curate — but there was no ques- 
 tion as to his respectability. 
 
 Mr. Marsh had made a great stir in Sum- 
 merly. The last Curate had been inclined 
 to take matters as easily as the Rector, so 
 things at the upper end of the village had 
 been as bad as at the lower — worse even; for 
 the Rector's kindliness, although often im- 
 posed upon, still had some indirect inlfluence 
 for good upon the rough men, and their 
 slatternly wives, whom he befriended ; and 
 the late Curate had not been remarkable for 
 rivalling him in that particular. The ladies 
 around Summerly Common hoped for great 
 things from Mr. Marsh. He was not long in 
 impressing them with a profound opinion of 
 his piety, and they hoped for much from a
 
 THE CHAPEL OF EASE. 267 
 
 " pious clergyman ;" and when, as time went 
 on, they found his piety was of the " high " 
 order, they became very sanguine in their 
 expectations. Life fifteen miles from town 
 is apt to stagnate at times, and there is a 
 little pleasant excitement about High Church- 
 ism, which tends to vary its monotony agreea- 
 bly to childless wives and young ladies whose 
 hopes of marriage have begun to fade. They 
 were all very ready to co-operate with Mr. 
 Marsh, and looked upon his advent as an 
 indescribable blessing. 
 
 He was not married, either — always a 
 desirable thing in a Curate, especially if of 
 the Ritualistic class. His appearance was a 
 little peculiar — the thick black beard, the 
 large features, the heavy mass of dark hair, 
 and the florid complexion, presenting a tout 
 ensemble not altogether in accordance with 
 the preconceived notions some of the ladies 
 had of curates. But they got over that ; the
 
 268 MEG. 
 
 beard soon became quite a point in his favour, 
 they speculated as to whether he would let 
 it grow, and the ultimate length to which it 
 might attain. The Rector was always cleanly 
 shaved. They were inclined to like the 
 Curate's beard out of sheer opposition ; be- 
 sides, if he did go as far as some of his 
 brethren had done in priestly attire, the 
 beard would be so admirably in keeping. 
 Father Ignatius and his brethren wore 
 beards. Well, they wouldn't like him to 
 go as far as Father Ignatius, who, they 
 thought, eschewed matrimony — -but still, how 
 well that beard, if he did, would go with 
 the gown and girdle. 
 
 The lower classes did not equal their 
 betters in reverence for the beard. Some 
 said he wore it to save sljaving, others be- 
 cause he was a converted Jew ; but they 
 kept these remarks to themselves, and as 
 the ladies all appeared to think so well of
 
 THE CHAPEL OF EASE. 269 
 
 Mr. Marsh, why, they professed to think 
 well too — at any rate within the ladies* 
 hearing. Altogether, Mr. Marsh bid fair to 
 be a popular person in Summerly. 
 
 Only the Rector regretted the choice he 
 had made. The Rector, who, let his defici- 
 encies be what they might, had still that rare 
 gift, common-sense. He had not seen much 
 good come of Ritualism, and was not inclined 
 to put much faith in it. He had hoped to 
 find in Mr. Marsh an active worker in the 
 parish, a man who would perform the pasto- 
 ral duty efficiently, preach tolerable sermons, 
 and supplement his own short-comings. He 
 had little idea* how far his Curate's views 
 were opposed to his own, when he appoint- 
 ed him to St. Paul's. 
 
 Mr. Marsh had held a wise reticence on 
 the point, and the Rector, if he had been 
 called on to define to which of the many 
 sections of the Church he belonged, would.
 
 270 MEG. 
 
 I am inclined to think, have given him his 
 place among the Broad scliool. Not so 
 broad as Colenso — with all the good old 
 gentleman's tolerance, he shook his head 
 whenever he named the Bishop of Natal — 
 certainly not quite on a par with Maurice 
 and Kingsley — but still endued with a plea- 
 sant gentlemanly liberalism, that perhaps 
 was the most desirable state of feeling now- 
 a-days, and most likely, the Rector imagined, 
 to render him acceptable to his congrega- 
 tion. And now here he was, preaching 
 doctrines which the old Rector held in 
 utter abhorrence, and inoculating everybody 
 in the congregation with the views of High 
 Anglicanism. 
 
 And the disease is so catching ! Fancy- 
 work, potichomanie, croquet, are nothing to it. 
 There is a delicious excitement about it all, 
 to which even flirting must give w^ay. Be- 
 sides, flirting and High Churchism can be
 
 THE CHAPEL OF EASE. 271 
 
 combined when an unmarried Curate incul- 
 cates tlie doctrines of the latter ; and though 
 Mr. Marsh was eight-and-thirty, and not of 
 the pale, interesting type of Curate that 
 ladies most admire, they were not disposed 
 to be too critical in Summerly — a Curate 
 was a curate, after all, even if robust and 
 rubicund, and the elderly demoiselles of the 
 place, and the women who had never heard 
 a child's prattle in their houses, w^ere dis- 
 posed to make the most of him ; he did so 
 much towards filling up the dreary vacuum 
 of their aimless lives. 
 
 Sunday became quite a pleasant day to 
 look forward to*. Some of the more enthu- 
 siastic of the fair devotees actually practised 
 their genuflexions before the glass. It was 
 not enough to kneel, but they ought to do 
 it gracefully, especially those whose dresses 
 were worth the exhibiting. There was a 
 decided rise in the dressmakers' bills after
 
 272 MEG. 
 
 Mr. Marsh's advent in Summerly. Nothing 
 shews a rich silk off to such advantage as 
 the folds it falls into around the kneeling 
 figure. Humility, judiciously attired, may be 
 made to wear a very queenly semblance. 
 Then there was the pleasure of practising 
 the responses ; some of them met at each 
 other's houses to do that — Mr. Marsh, of 
 course, presiding. It was on these occa- 
 sions that he was in all his glory as a Curate 
 — petted, flattered, and appealed to — a 
 Pope in a small way, and happier than a 
 Pope, inasmuch as he had the inestimable 
 privilege of hoping to marry some one of the 
 fair creatures around him not yet appropri- 
 ated, and sufficiently endowed. 
 
 There was some earnestness and honesty, 
 too, in the man — as much as there can be 
 with one who is nominally an adherent of 
 one form of worship, and doing his utmost 
 to supplant it by another. He believed that
 
 THE CHAPEL OF EASE. 273 
 
 he was doing the best thing for his church 
 — the best for his congregation — in taking 
 the line he did ; and perhaps we must not 
 judge him too hardly if he did not forget 
 that he might be doing the best for himself. 
 As a mere Curate, content to jog along the 
 old beaten paths, preach commonplace ser- 
 mons, and perform commonplace duties, he 
 would have taken a very secondary position 
 to that which he aspired to, and to which he. 
 sincerely believed his ordination entitled 
 him. It was a great thing to be a priest, 
 and hold more than life and death in his 
 hands — the power of absolving and confess- 
 ing sinners. After all, what was the power 
 of king or kaiser to that ?— to the mysteri- 
 ous authority delegated by God himself unto 
 His ministrants before the altar ? 
 
 The possession of these mysterious powers 
 was a great thing ; but there was enough of 
 the earth, earthy, about Mr. Marsh, to make 
 
 VOL. I. T
 
 274 MEG. 
 
 him also value the position to which that 
 power entitled him. A man sprung, as he 
 had done, from the lower middle-classes, 
 would attach more importance to that than 
 one born in the upper ranks of society. 
 Here was a ready means, if not of exactly 
 entering those ranks, of taking a footing in- 
 dependent of, and above them all. There 
 was no household where, as a priest, he 
 might not enter as an equal, and something 
 more ; no woman who ought not to feel 
 honoured by the offer of his hand, no lay- 
 man who would have a right to count him- 
 self his superior. 
 
 Mr. Marsh did not put these pretensions 
 forth plainly — in fact, he had a little awk- 
 wardness and diffidence to contend with. 
 It might be all very well to know his posi- 
 tion ; but still he did not feel quite ^o easy 
 about it when visiting the Oaks, and he had 
 a dim idea that Mr. Stanton would have
 
 THE CHAPEL OF EASE. 275 
 
 opened his eyes rather widely, and shut his 
 doors very closely on him for the future, had 
 he asserted it, or presumed to consider that 
 it entitled him to become a candidate for the 
 hand of his daughter. Indeed, in that case 
 Mr. Marsh had an uncomfortable conscious- 
 ness that he would have been shown to 
 the door at once, and in a very summary 
 manner. 
 
 No, things were only ripening now, not 
 ripe yet, for the priesthood to stand forth 
 in all its dignity and power. All that he 
 could do was to exert himself to the utmost 
 in hastening the process, labouring with all 
 his might in the little corner of the world 
 which had been assigned him as his special 
 vineyard. 
 
 Sorely those labours grieved the Rector. 
 On saint days and festivals the bells were 
 ringing, and St. Paul's opened for the at- 
 tendance of the neighbouring ladies, who 
 
 T 2
 
 276 MEG. 
 
 would have been much better at home, the 
 old gentleman thought, than encouraging 
 Mr. Marsh in wasting time that might have 
 been so much better spent. Couldn't he go 
 amongst the poor ? Was there nothing else 
 for him to do than practise these senseless 
 mummeries, which were so many excres- 
 cences on the grandly simple form of worship 
 the Church enjoined? He might as well have 
 been play-actor at once — ten times sooner, 
 for an actor might be an honest man, but 
 what could be said of a clergj^man of the 
 Church of England who was three-quarters 
 of the way on the road to Rome? The 
 
 Rector's soul chafed within him. There 
 
 • 
 
 were the poor, too, those poor whom he 
 had hoped a younger and more efficient 
 man than himself would do so much for, 
 complaining that if they went to Chapel the 
 ladies gave them tracts upon the sin of 
 Nonconformity, in which Dissenters were
 
 THE CHAPEL OF EASE. 277 
 
 spoken of in very unpleasant terms, while Mr. 
 Marsh withdrew the light of his counten- 
 ance altogether from them. 
 
 In all his life the Rector had never once 
 made a distinction between the Church-goer 
 and Dissenter — indeed, in Summerly, as far 
 as the lower classes were concerned, it 
 would have been difficult to do so, — the few 
 who attended a place of worship at all go- 
 ing to Chapel — which the Rector himself 
 hardly wondered at ; he had a dim idea 
 that Mr. Harley understood their spiritual 
 needs far better than he did himself. But 
 there was no such tolerance to be found 
 amongst Mr. Marsh and his lady visitors. To 
 stop away from Church was, after all, only 
 a sin of omission, for which a great many 
 excuses could be found — the want of a Sun- 
 day coat, a cross baby, a fit of rheumatism ; 
 but to go to Chapel was a sin beyond forgive- 
 ness — a flagrant piece of insubordination
 
 278 MEG. 
 
 against the powers that be — treason against 
 spiritual authority, for which no punishment 
 short of a cutting off from all good offices 
 and charities would suffice. So some of 
 the better-class poor turned mutinous and 
 insolent, called Mr. Marsh hard names, and 
 vowed that if the Chapel were shut up alto- 
 gether, they would never darken the doors 
 of the Church ; while those of a lower stamp 
 attended occasionally, and took good care to 
 turn their attendance to profitable account 
 afterwards ; adding to their other vices one 
 from which, till now, they had at least been 
 free — that of hypocrisy. 
 
 Altogether, the Rector felt that he had 
 made a grievous blunder in putting Mr. 
 Marsh into the curacy — a blunder likely to 
 be little less disastrous in its consequences 
 than was tlie one that thirty years before he 
 had made when he liimself entered the 
 Church. Both blunders were irremediable
 
 THE CHAPEL OF EASE. 279 
 
 now — the curacy was perpetual, and there 
 was nothing for himself but to abide by the 
 vocation he had adopted. 
 
 And while Mr. Marsh was intoning his 
 prayers, swinging his censers, and attiring 
 himself in the last new thing in ecclesiastical 
 millinery, that the fingers of his fair devotees 
 had furnished, there was one girl in the 
 parish asking if, amidst all these symbols 
 
 and ceremonies, she could find that which 
 
 • 
 
 in all her seeming careless happiness she had 
 been asking for — the purpose for which her 
 life was given, and how best to lighten the 
 darkened, wretched lives which she had 
 caught glimpses of around her. Would 
 there be no practical outcome from it all ? — 
 no solution to the riddle of her own abund- 
 ance and others' poverty, her own smooth 
 path and the troubled ones of others, which 
 perplexed and distressed her ? 
 
 And there was another girl, miles away,
 
 280 MEG. 
 
 waiting by a sick-bed, from which the sufferer 
 would never rise, who, while the Church 
 was disputing and differing amongst itself, 
 had been overlooked by all its members — 
 who had grown up to womanhood as very a 
 heathen as if she had never heard the sound 
 of the church bells — who had never even 
 learned how sacred a thing her womanhood 
 was, and so had lost its purity, and dese- 
 crated its sacredness, before she knew the 
 worth of either; and who was waiting — 
 waiting now for the day to come when a 
 pauper grave would enclose for ever the 
 mother who bore her, as it had enclosed 
 her child and its father. 
 
 No hope, no hereafter, for one more than 
 the other. Nothing when the grave had 
 closed, but the thick black clods upon it. 
 The sun might shine, and the sky wear its 
 brightest azure, but sunshine and blue ether 
 would only seem a mockery to the eyes that
 
 THE CHAPEL OF EASE. 281 
 
 had never learned to look beyond the 
 clouds, and to the heart that thought be- 
 neath the clods lay all.
 
 282 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 MRS. Blount's last good night. 
 
 11 1"RS. BLOUNT lingered on. The parish 
 ^"-^ doctor said she would never get 
 better ; but Meg was not satisfied with his 
 verdict, and called in another. She had 
 money enough to go on with, as she had told 
 Mr. Ensdell, and she was determined that 
 her mother should want for nothing. She 
 had not been the best of mothers, perhaps, 
 but Meg was not the girl to think of that at 
 such a time as this ; besides, after all, Mrs. 
 Blount was no worse than her neighbours, 
 and if she had scolded Meg, and kept a 
 tight hand over her, she had never struck 
 or ill-used her even in her least sober mo-
 
 MRS. Blount's last good night. 283 
 
 ments — and tliere were not many mothers 
 in Swamp Town of whom that could be said. 
 Mrs. Blount herself had an idea that she 
 was going, but she said little on the subject, 
 being, indeed, too weak to do so. Once 
 the clergyman came of whom I have 
 spoken, and Meg, who had never yet met 
 him, wondered at his words, and the mean- 
 ing of his visit. He addressed Mrs. Blount 
 as a sinner, which made Meg angry ; she^ 
 was not going to have her mother called 
 names, and felt inclined to tell him so ; and 
 he spoke a great deal about the Church, and 
 the sheep that had strayed from the fold — 
 all of which was sheerly unintelligible to 
 Meg, whose one idea of the Church was 
 that of a great stone building, with closed 
 doors all the week through, and to which 
 well-dressed people went on a Sunday. 
 She had never been in one herself, but she 
 was sure it was not a place for sheep — did
 
 284 MEG. 
 
 he wish to say that her mother was one ? — 
 and what did he mean about a fold ? 
 
 Meg sat sullenly by the fire all the time 
 he was speaking, and made up her mind he 
 should not come in again, " worryin' her 
 mother like that." 
 
 He meant well, too, only it was almost 
 impossible for him to realize the utter 
 ignorance with which he had to contend. 
 He had his set, dry phrases and formulas, 
 which were quite unintelligible to Meg; and 
 her mother, who had heard something like 
 them in the old days, when she attended 
 Sunday-school, had forgotten their meaning 
 now, if, indeed, she had ever understood it. 
 
 The Reverend Thomas Brown was not 
 exactly adapted for his work, and made 
 little way amongst the people of Swamp 
 Town ; still, it was something to have him 
 there at all — a slight improvement upon the 
 utter neglect of the place, which till now
 
 MRS. BLOUNt's last GOOD NIGHT. 285 
 
 had been the rule. If only the Reverend 
 Thomas would have used plain words, and 
 made sure that his hearers understood their 
 meaning, before he commenced discoursing 
 of the mysteries of things unseen, and to 
 them incomprehensible. 
 
 The fact was, to wake such souls as those 
 of Meg and her companions, he had need to 
 learn a language in which to address them. 
 If he would only have given them milk, not 
 meat — ^have been content to instruct them 
 in the A B C of Christianity at first, he 
 might have done some good. As it was, 
 half his words fell on idle, inattentive ears, 
 simply because they could not comprehend 
 them. If they could only have understood 
 his message, no fear but they would have 
 received it gladly. As it was, the message 
 passed unheeded, because it was not under- 
 stood. 
 
 Once or twice the ladies from the soup-
 
 286 MEG. 
 
 kitchen came to inquire after Mrs. Blount, 
 but Meg would not allow them to see her. 
 She had not been favourably impressed by 
 " the parson," and her mother wanted quiet, 
 she said ; if she could give her nothing else, 
 she would give her that. 
 
 It might have been well for Meg if these 
 ladies had begun their ministrations earlier. 
 As it was, she had cast her lot in with Joe 
 some time before they came to Swamp 
 Town, and in one way or another had been 
 prevented from coming into contact with 
 them. They would have done her infinite- 
 ly more good than the Rev. Thomas, their 
 way and his of going to work being rather 
 different. The Rev. Thomas was paid by 
 the Church Missionary Society, and looked 
 a little askance on the ladies, who were of 
 no particular denomination whatever, com- 
 prising in their number half a dozen differ- 
 ent shades of opinion, from Broad Church
 
 MRS. Blount's last good night. 287 
 
 down to what the Rev. Thomas m his heart 
 regarded as the natural and inevitable termi- 
 nation of such latitudinarianism, and termed, 
 not too reverently, Socinianism. They were 
 doing their work well, however, but they 
 were too few for the labour, and their very 
 unsectarianism was against them. People 
 liked better to co-operate with an acknow- 
 ledged leader, and feel some ism or other 
 was the mainspring of their efforts. It was ^ 
 not enough to work for Christ alone. They 
 must give some religious denomination or 
 other the credit of their good deeds. 
 
 All the same, if these good Samaritans 
 had been a little earlier in the field, they 
 might have given another colouring to Meg's 
 life. 
 
 Mr. Ensdell came every other day, to see 
 how his model's mother was progressing. 
 He had found it quite hopeless to attempt 
 to persuade Meg to leave her, so he waded
 
 288 MEG. 
 
 through the dust of Swamp Town, and 
 bought sometimes grapes, and sometimes 
 flowers ; and the invalid was very much 
 pleased with the attention, and seemed to 
 think that her merits were at last being ap- 
 preciated. Mr. Ensdell would have given 
 her more substantial help, but when he 
 offered to do so, Meg had civilly declined 
 it. She had enough as yet, she told him, 
 and she wouldn't go begging for her mother 
 as long as she could help it. But she was 
 very grateful for the flowers — they light- 
 ened up the dull little room, and did some- 
 thing to deaden the all-pervading odour of 
 the dust. The grapes, too, were so beauti- 
 ful, .Meg felt her heart dilate within her as 
 she looked upon them. It was so kind of 
 a gentleman like Mr. Ensdell to think of 
 bringing them. She often found her 
 thoughts turning from the flowers and the 
 fruit to their donor.
 
 mrs.-blount's last good night. 289 
 
 It seemed a relief to have him to think 
 of now. The long attendance by that sick 
 bed was very monotonous, and there was 
 not the love to lighten it that there had 
 been when she kept watch by Joe. True, 
 she was spared the agony of that time ; in- 
 stead there was now only a dull dead sense 
 of pain, when she thought of the hour so 
 near at hand when she would be quite alone 
 in the world. A cold, bleak feeling of^ 
 loneliness oppressed her when she looked 
 forward, — it was a little comfort to think of 
 Mr. Ensdell then. In the midst of the dull 
 drudgery of her daily life, it was pleasant to 
 dwell upon his modulated voice, his white 
 hands and careful dress. 
 
 Meg had never thought him handsome, 
 but she had found herself recalling, with a 
 strange pleasure, his refined easy bearing, 
 his tall slender figure, and the light brown 
 waving hair of which he was so proud. His 
 
 VOL. I. u
 
 290 MEG. 
 
 coming was something to look forward to — 
 the day seemed as if it would never come to 
 an end when he did not make his appear- 
 ance in the sick-room. She did not care 
 for him, she told herself so, "only as a poor 
 girl might for a gentleman who had been 
 very kind to her " — certainly not as she had 
 cared for Joe ; but she found her mind run- 
 ning on him every hour of the day. 
 
 Only her mind, however, which had so 
 little else to fill it ; as to her heart, that was 
 still with Joe and baby. 
 
 Mrs. Blount made no comment on Mr. 
 Ensdell's repeated visits. Indeed, she was 
 too weak to do more than show her plea- 
 sure at his gifts; and day by day the languor 
 and torpor increased, till at last she could 
 only open her eyes when she heard his 
 voice, and give a faint smile of welcome. 
 
 How long she was dying ! And, unlike 
 Charles the Second, she was quite uncon-
 
 MRS. BLOUNt's last GOOD NIGHT. 291 
 
 scious of tlie inconvenience she was causing. 
 Mr. Ensdell was always the same — bland, 
 smiling, and sympathetic, but he felt Mrs. 
 Blount was very much in the way, and al- 
 most despaired of seeing his Rebecca ever 
 finished. At last he resolved to leave Lon- 
 don for a few days — the waiting would seem 
 a little less wearisome if he were out of 
 sight of his picture, and he might come back 
 and find matters happily terminated. He 
 did not tell Meg this when he announced 
 his intention of going to the seaside, simply 
 saying that he did not feel very well, and 
 should not be gone more than a week or 
 two. 
 
 The girl turned pale as he spoke, which 
 Mr. Ensdell was not very sorry to see — it 
 was clear that she would miss him. He 
 slipped some gold into her hand. 
 
 " You must take this, Meg ; I shouldn't 
 like you to want for anything while I'm gone." 
 
 u2
 
 292 MEG. 
 
 Then Meg burst into tears. 
 
 " I wouldn't take it, but it's a truth, my 
 last shilling's gone ; but you've paid me so 
 well, and you're so kind, it seems robbing 
 like to take it from you." 
 
 " Robbing ! Nonsense, Meg ; you shall 
 give me a few extra sittings when I come 
 back, and that will make all square. Good- 
 bye, my girl ; keep up your spirits, and don't 
 lose your good looks." 
 
 Then he was gone, and Meg put the 
 money into her little purse, saying — 
 
 " Well, he's very good, and a gentleman, 
 every inch of him." 
 
 The next day Mrs. Blount seemed better. 
 She was able to speak, which she had not 
 done for days ; and when Meg gave her the 
 stimulants which the doctor had ordered, 
 her eyes brightened, and she almost looked 
 her old self again. 
 
 " Meg," she said, " I've got something to
 
 MRS. BLOUNt's last GOOD NIGHT. 293 
 
 say. Come near, girl, for I can't speak 
 loud. I've not been quite as good a mo- 
 ther as I might — things has been against 
 me all my life, somehow ; but it's my belief 
 you was honestly born — it wasn't my fault 
 if you weren't. How was a poor creature 
 like me to know all the ins and outs of the 
 law ? It was a shame for any gentleman 
 to take a girl in as he took me !" 
 
 Her voice dropped — indeed, Meg had 
 had some difficulty in catching the last 
 words. She lay still for a minute or two, 
 picking the blanket with her fingers ; then 
 she went on, but still in a low tone — 
 
 " It was a shame, and I might have 
 brought it home to him, after all ; but 
 where was the. good, when I didn't know 
 where to find him ? But, Meg, your mo- 
 ther was a married woman — that's why I've 
 always held my head up high, as a woman's 
 a right to that's been before the parson, and
 
 294 MEG. 
 
 got her wedding lines all right. You'll 
 find all about them, Meg, in the old chaney 
 teapot — the one that was my grandmo- 
 ther's. Good night, girl — I'm drowsy-like 
 — good night !" 
 
 Her mother said no more ; but presently 
 Meg felt her hand stiffening in her grasp, 
 and before long knew the meaning of that 
 quietness. She was alone in the world at 
 last!
 
 295 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 THE SISTERHOOD OF ST. PAUL's. 
 
 IT must not be supposed that all Mr. 
 Marsh's congregation were as ready as 
 the ladies to enter into his views of the right 
 position of the Church. Men were apt to 
 be obstinate and stiff-necked in these mat- 
 ters, and the weaker sex was always the 
 readiest to be influenced for good, and the 
 most unquestioning in its obedience. Mr. 
 Marsh had had some trouble, and anticipat- 
 ed more, from the male members of his 
 flock ; but the ladies were exerting them- 
 selves to the utmost to lessen his difficulties 
 for him. 
 
 The most important personage on Sum-
 
 296 MEG. 
 
 merly Common, if not the richest, was Mr. 
 Orley. His house — cottage, he called it, 
 with a proud humility — was the very es- 
 sence of neatness and trim order. His 
 grounds were well kept by the best gar- 
 dener in the place, and liis conservatory 
 was always dazzling in its display. He had 
 lived on Summerly Common for five-and- 
 twenty years, and was looked up to by 
 every one, at his own end of the village at 
 least, with all the reverence that his portly 
 person and imposing bearing seemed to 
 claim. He had a bland manner, which was 
 almost regal in its graciousness ; he might 
 be thought too patronizing by some, who 
 would see spots in the sun, flaws in the 
 Koh-i-noor, but in the opinion of the ma- 
 jority who dwelt on Summerly Common, his 
 manners were nearly faultless. He was 
 tall, stout — but no stouter than a gentleman 
 of good income and position, who dined well
 
 THE SISTERHOOD OF ST. PAUL's. 297 
 
 daily, might be — had been very handsome 
 in his youth, and now, though over fifty, 
 was better worth looking at than many a 
 younger man. He was rather florid, and 
 inclining to be grey ; but the greyness be- 
 came him — it had the effect of powder, and 
 completed the aristocratic bearing which 
 everyone in Summerly — himself not ex- 
 cepted — admired so much in Mr. Orley. 
 He looked every inch a lord, some people 
 said — a great deal more like a lord than 
 the Earl of Sandown, at Milford Chase, four 
 miles from Summerly Common, who went 
 about his grounds in a wide-awake, knicker- 
 bockers, high-lows, and gaiters ; joked with 
 the butchers and farmers when he gave the 
 prizes at the Milford Cattle-show ; and 
 knew every labourer he employed by name. 
 Mr. Orley would almost as soon have cut 
 off his head as put a wide-awake on it ; and 
 as to knickerbockers, not a tailor in the
 
 298 MEG. 
 
 world would have dared propose them to 
 him. He was irreproachable in his costume, 
 without a tinge of dandyism, studying in 
 that, as he did in everything else, the juste 
 milieu which he held to be the chief charac- 
 teristic of a gentleman. He was moderate 
 in his politics — a liberal Whig ; moderate in 
 his tastes, liking a little pleasure now and 
 then, when business — he was a wholesale 
 druggist — permitted it ; and taking that 
 pleasure as a gentleman should at the 
 Opera or the Horticultural ; and he was 
 moderate in his religion, or would have 
 liked to have been so, if his wife would only 
 let him. 
 
 Of course, he had always belonged to the 
 Church. It was the most suitable religion 
 for a gentleman ; but he was very tolerant 
 of Dissenters — had been known to lend his 
 Times, which he considered the only paper 
 fit for a gentleman's reading, to a neighbour
 
 THE SISTERHOOD OF ST. PAUL's. 299 
 
 who went to chapel ; asked after the neigh- 
 bour's wife in her confinement ; and bowed 
 to the Dissenting minister whenever he met 
 him. But he stood by the Church for all 
 this laxity, attended the morning service 
 every Sunday, uttered the responses aloud — 
 this was before they had commenced intoning 
 them — kept his eye on the National School 
 boys in the gallery, and asked the Curate 
 to dinner at least once a month. He had 
 been elected churchwarden recently, and 
 was considered a very efficient one ; always 
 gave liberally to collections, and supported 
 the parish clergy on every occasion when his 
 support could be of service. Altogether, 
 until Mr. Marsh's advent in the place, Mr. 
 Orley had looked upon himself, and been 
 regarded by others, as one of the firmest 
 pillars of the EstabHshed Church. But Mr. 
 Marsh's opinion of what the Church con- 
 sisted, and Mr. Orley's, were rather at va-
 
 300 MEG. 
 
 riance ; and the Curate and the Church- 
 warden might have come to an open 
 rupture, had it not been for the influence of 
 the wife of the latter, who had been one of 
 the earliest converts to Mr. Marsh's views 
 when he first propounded them in Sum- 
 merly. 
 
 How some men marry some women must 
 always be a standing mystery — how Mr. 
 Orley could ever have selected his wife was 
 a marvel to many. There was a genial 
 kindliness, a heartiness of tone in the man 
 that won upon most people after a very 
 short acquaintance. But Mrs. Orley was as 
 frigid as an icicle, stiff, cold, and unbending 
 — a woman whom you might know a dozen 
 years without once seeing her smile. Care- 
 ful in her dress — much too careful for a 
 lady — it was the neatness of a school- 
 teacher, required to set a good example to 
 the girls; so orderly and precise in her
 
 THE SISTERHOOD OF ST. PAUL's. 301 
 
 movements, tliat tliey seemed regulated 
 by clock-work ; and plain and unattrac- 
 tive in her person. What could Mr. 
 Orley have seen in her five-and-twenty 
 years ago to induce him to make her 
 his wife ? Five-and-twenty years ago, when 
 he must have been one of the handsomest 
 young men in England ! There have been 
 plainer women than Mrs. Orley, but rarely 
 more unlovely ones. It was a cold, grey , 
 face, without light or bloom — a face that you 
 could never fancy a husband caressing, or 
 a child's lips kissing. You would be right 
 in the latter supposition — Mrs. Orley was 
 childless — fortunately for the next genera- 
 tion — the children might not have favoured 
 their father. But she ruled her husband, 
 in spite of all her plainness. It might be that 
 she had brought him his share in the druggist 
 business, where he was now nominally chief 
 partner, but in which Mrs. Orley had never
 
 302 MEG. 
 
 given up her interest. It might be that Mr. 
 Orley was a man who, under almost any cir- 
 cumstances, would have spoiled the woman 
 he married, partly out of the courtesy and 
 forbearance that he considered due to every 
 lady from a gentleman, and partly out of 
 sheer instinctive kindness. However that 
 might be, at Summerly Cottage the " grey 
 mare was the better horse," most people 
 said ; and when you looked at Mrs. Orley's 
 colourless tones, and meagre outlines, you 
 felt that the mare was a very grey one in- 
 deed, and quite unfit to rule it over the 
 nobler animal. 
 
 Mrs. Orley had taken to Ritualism very 
 readily. It was an agreeable change in the 
 monotony of her life. There was something, 
 too, in its exclusiveness that suited her. It 
 was pleasant to feel herself one of the Church, 
 out of whose pale there was no salvation. 
 It gave her much the same feeling that one
 
 THE SISTERHOOD OF ST. PAUL's. 303 
 
 has indoors of a rainy day, when one sees the 
 drenched pedestrians passing by on the wet, 
 sloppy pavement. It is decidedly uncom- 
 fortable for them, but quite the reverse for 
 us. The wetter and more miserable they 
 look, the more we enjoy our own warmth 
 and dryness. It's a bad thing for them to 
 be out, but how very nice for us to be in ! 
 Mrs. Orley seemed, like some very good 
 people, to think that heaven would be bettqr 
 worth the trying for if there was no chance 
 of its being inconveniently crowded. She 
 would have liked to have had a mea- 
 sure for Christ's love, and meted out God's 
 mercy. There was the making of a first- 
 rate Calvinist in her, only Calvinism had 
 never come in her way. Ritualism, with its 
 dogma of one infallible church, had all the 
 exclusiveness of the Genevese creed, with a 
 pomp, a show, and a display that made its 
 services a welcome change to the dry mo-
 
 304 MEG. 
 
 notony of her life. They were even better 
 than the theatre ; for she was an actress in, 
 as well as a spectator of them, and there was 
 a grim self-satisfaction, a consciousness of 
 doing something good for her own soul, and 
 showing other people what they ought to 
 do for theirs, that the theatre, of course, 
 could never be expected to yield. 
 
 Mr. Marsh was a very frequent visitor 
 at Summerly Cottage, and Mrs. Orley and 
 he had long consultations together as to the 
 best means of re-establishing the Anglo- 
 Catholic Church in Summerly. The rever- 
 end gentleman was anxious to found a Sister- 
 hood of Mercy in the village; not a Beguinage 
 or a nunnery — the times were not ripe 
 enough yet for that, nor could funds for 
 some time to come be spared from the deco- 
 rations and alterations of the church — but a 
 sisterhood, that should include every lady in 
 the village with time enough to devote to it.
 
 THE SISTERHOOD OF ST. PAUL's. 305 
 
 They miglit, though living in their own 
 homes, have their regular organization, their 
 course of action prescribed, their modes of 
 work; even have some distinctive name — the 
 Sisters of St. Paul would not sound amiss, 
 he thought. Mrs. Orley suggested the Sisters 
 of St. David — why should they not be called 
 after the name saint of their founder ? But 
 Mr. Marsh, though flattered at the idea, re- 
 fused to entertain it. It might give a handle, 
 to the scoiFers without to accuse him of 
 spiritual pride and self-sufficiency. The 
 time might come when a sisterhood might 
 be so named — possibly when he had passed 
 from this mundane scene — ^but for the pre- 
 sent let the honour be St. Paul's. 
 
 But the sisterhood would be a good 
 thing, there was no question of that; as 
 Mr. Marsh said, it was sufficient for the 
 priest to offer up the daily sacrifices — the 
 services of the temple required all his time, 
 
 VOL. I. X
 
 306 MEG. 
 
 without the minor duties being required of 
 him ; that band of ladies, acting under his 
 directions, and organized into a body, could 
 perform as well, or better than himself 
 There ought to be some distinctive badge 
 about it. Mrs. Orley suggested a dress to be 
 worn by the members while performing 
 their ministrations ; but Mr. Marsh was not 
 quite sure how that might be. The question 
 was whether the Roman Catholic Church, 
 which the Anglo-Catholic was now taking as 
 its great exemplar, sanctioned the wearing a 
 peculiar garb by a lay sisterhood not dwel- 
 ling together, and only meeting occasionally. 
 Mrs. Orley said that if it did not it ought 
 — it ruined good dresses to be wearing them 
 in all weathers, and some parts of Summer- 
 ly were very muddy walking, and it was a 
 chance if, in half the cottages, you found a 
 seat clean enough to sit down upon — there 
 was always washing, or cooking, or children
 
 THE SISTERHOOD OF ST. PAUL's. 307 
 
 in the way. A dress stout, useful, and ap- 
 propriate, would be a great feature in the 
 sisterhood, and have a very salutary effect 
 upon the minds of the Summerly labourers 
 and their families. 
 
 Mr. Marsh was inclined to sanction the 
 dress ; it would be effective, as Mrs. Orley 
 said — as to the economical part of the matter, 
 he did not enter into that view of it quite 
 so much as the lady. And he had his doubt^ 
 whether such a dress as Mrs. Orley was likely 
 to suggest would be just the one that the 
 younger ladies of the congregation would 
 approve of That lady's own attire was too 
 severe in its colours, too - rigid in its avoid- 
 ance of everything bright and fanciful, for 
 her to be likely to originate a very attrac- 
 tive costume for the sisterhood. And then 
 he was afraid to swerve from the rules 
 which the Roman Church had laid down on 
 such matters ; therefore he suggested that.
 
 308 MEG. 
 
 before deciding on the matter of costume, 
 it would be well for him to consult one 
 likely to be better informed than himself on 
 such matters. Why should he hesitate to 
 go to the fountain-head for help ? Father 
 Vivian, a priest, who officiated at Milford 
 and several of the neighbouring towns, shar- 
 ing his pastoral cares among them, travel- 
 ling from one to the other on Sundays, to 
 perform mass, had lately taken up his resi- 
 dence in the lower part of Summerly. Why 
 not consult him ? — ^his advice as to the dress, 
 and many minor matters, would be of great 
 assistance. Perhaps the Father might even 
 be brought to countenance a meeting of the 
 ladies with his presence; and, at that meet- 
 ing, if he approved of a distinctive costume, 
 it might then be settled of what it should 
 consist. 
 
 Mrs. Orley said in that case she would in- 
 vite a number of the ladies to her house
 
 THE SISTERHOOD OF ST. PAUl's. 309 
 
 early the next week. As it was settled 
 that the sisterhood was to be, whether it 
 should be attired in every-day clothes or 
 not, the sooner it was started the better. 
 Would Mr. Marsh call on Father Vivian, 
 meanwhile, with the view of obtaining his 
 assistance in the matter? And would he 
 at once assist her in drawing up a list of 
 the ladies whom he intended to honour by 
 allowing them to co-operate in his ministra- 
 tions ? 
 
 Mr. Marsh wisely replied that he left that 
 part of the matter to Mrs. Orley's own dis- 
 cretion. She would know best what ladies 
 were most likely to be useful in the good 
 work. He would only mention one name, 
 and if that appeared on the roll of the sister- 
 hood, its influence would be immense; Miss 
 Stanton, of the Oaks. Would it be pos- 
 sible to induce her to co-operate with 
 them ?
 
 310 MEG. 
 
 Mrs. Orley felt dubious on this point. Mr. 
 Stanton was supposed to be Low Church — 
 at least he always attended the parish 
 church ; and his daughter was likely to hold 
 opinions similar to his own — or if not, he 
 would be scarcely likely to allow her to co- 
 operate in a scheme that the Rector in his 
 lamentable ignorance would be sure not to 
 see the advantages of However, Mrs. Win- 
 throp, Miss Stanton's chaperon, was her 
 own first cousin. She had always found 
 her very ready to receive instruction in reli- 
 gious matters from those qualified to give it. 
 She would write to her, and though her 
 duties at the Oaks might prevent her join- 
 ing the sisterhood, she would possibly 
 attend the first meeting, and might be 
 brought to see that it was her bounden duty 
 to urge her charge to become one of its 
 members, let her father's opinions and the 
 Rector's be what they might.
 
 THE SISTERHOOD OF ST. PAUL's. 311 
 
 " Obedience to parents is very desirable, 
 but Miss Stanton is quite old enough to 
 judge for herself; and on such a point as 
 this, Mr. Marsh, I think we are justified in 
 saying that the authority of the Church 
 ought to supersede even that of a father." 
 
 Mr. Marsh would not contradict the lady. 
 It would be a very good thing indeed if 
 Miss Stanton joined the sisterhood — thus en- 
 rolling herself at once as a convert to his 
 teaching; and he was not at all afraid of any 
 open scandal through her disobeying her 
 father. Parents with only daughters, heir- 
 esses and beauties to boot, were, generally 
 speaking, very manageable ; there was not 
 much fear but that if Mrs. Winthrop did 
 her duty in the matter, by showing Miss 
 Stanton in what hers consisted, she would 
 find no great difficulty in persuading her fa- 
 ther to let her follow that duty, and become 
 a lay sister of the order of St. Paul's.
 
 312 MEG. 
 
 He left Mrs. Orley, telling her he would 
 at once proceed to call on Father Vivian ; 
 and she sat down to write to Mrs. Winthrop. 
 
 END OF THE FIRST VOLUME. 
 
 LONDON : PRINTED BY MACDONALD AND TUQWELL, BLENHEIM HOUSE.