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CORNELL 
 
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 FUND GIVEN IN 1 89 1 BY 
 
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Cornell University Library 
 PR3991.A1M321854 
 
 Margaretior, Prejudice at home, and its 
 
 3 1924 013 204 569 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of this bool< is in 
 the Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
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 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013204569 
 
"There," he said, drawlingly, aa he toot two bank notes from 
 his pocket, and held them out flutteTing in his fingers 
 
 See page 258. 
 
OR, 
 
 [piai<oiiiDJS[s M m^urn Mm T^m mt^-rm. 
 
 3^ 
 
 "I loathe you and your offer alike, and I desire you to quit tae 
 Tooin and the house.-— See page 159. 
 
 ^^t^s^l^ 
 
 STRINGER & TOWNSEND, NEW YORK. 
 
MARGAEET 
 
 OB, 
 
 PREJUDICE AT HOME, AND ITS 
 yiCTIMS. 
 
 i.tt Mnltingrii|iliii:. 
 
 NEW-YORK. 
 
 BTEINGEB & TOWNSBND, 222 BROADWAY. 
 
 1854. 
 
MAEGAEET; 
 
 OR, 
 
 PREJUDICE AT HOME, AND ITS VICTIMS. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Twelve years ago t was just fifteen years old. I look 
 back with dismay upon that period of my existance during 
 which I was "trained up ia the way I should go," after a 
 most orthodox fashion. For this world having a way pecu- 
 liar to itself of compelling individuals to go " whither they 
 would not," and my retrospection dragging this fact 
 more prominently forward than any other, I have been for 
 some time past in the habit of confining myself resolutely 
 to the present and the future with the sort of instinct that 
 pi'ompts a man who has found shelter from some terrible 
 tempest, to let it rage on unheeded while he makes the most 
 of the comfortable quarters upon which he has fallen. 
 
 It is an emotion of selfishness in both cases ; but I have 
 lived long enough to know that selfishness is needful for 
 self-preservation. It is, however, something above and be- 
 yond this comfortable assurance that by slow degrees has - 
 endowed me with courage to look the past boldly in the 
 face. I know that many are perishing in the storm by 
 which I was well-nigh wrecked, body and soul ; I know, too, 
 that their chance of escape can hardly fall short of what 
 mine was ; but, let the worst come to the worst, I have 
 wrested from the strong grasp of earthly oppression a con- 
 viction that God wiU take care of his own. 
 
12 Margaret; or, 
 
 I am a citizen of the world, and as suoli I lay claim to 
 none of the patriotic feeling that inolines others to glory in 
 the land of their birth. Indeed, it was made so clear to me 
 years ago that I never ought to have been bom at all, that 
 I may well hesitate at Writing myself down a denizen of any 
 particular land ; and as I commenced life without right to 
 any name beyond the simple one prefixed to this book, it 
 may -be understood at onoe that I was the first of my race. 
 
 The accident of my birth occurred at , a cathedral 
 
 city of England. T belieye I was as wilful and wayward in 
 my infancy and girlhood as any one could be about whose 
 privilege to bring added trouble into this world there was no 
 question. I had my antipathies and partialities, which were, 
 perhaps, the more decided because they were allowed small 
 scopei Of the three persons with whom alone 1 held any 
 intercourse until my fifteenth year, I loved and reverenced 
 the first, feared the second, and thoroughly disliked the 
 third. 
 
 The first of these was my grandfather, Thomas Marples, 
 He was a verger of the cathedral, as his father had been be- 
 fore him. He was a venerable-looking old man, tall, thin, 
 and slightly bent ; his long white hair floated about a coun- 
 tenance that had been handsome, and that now beamed 
 with intelligence and piety, and his singularly large eyes had 
 a mournful expression, especially when they rested upon 
 myself, that very early arrested my attention and drew me 
 towards him, and, more than anything else, confirmed his 
 influence over me. Those large melancholy eyes haunted 
 my dreams. There was a mystery in them that I could not 
 fathom in the days when it never oocured to me to ask any 
 question about myself, and I was busied with it in my child- 
 ish way till I could not get rid of the impression. I saw 
 that there was some secret suffering, some hidden bleeding 
 of the heart, thinly veiled from me beneath the uniform 
 serenity and uncomplaining endurance of one who knew in 
 whom he had trusted. In this manner I first become 
 acquainted with the admonitory heart-ache that, if only by 
 way of variety, conies upon us even in childhood. And as 
 the heart must be touclied before the mind can be properly 
 regulated, this latent interest in himself led me to listen more 
 
PEEJUDICK AT HOME. 1,3, 
 
 attentively to the pioiia instructions of my grand-father. 
 His simple but earnest exposition of tlie great plan of redemp- 
 tion disclosed it to me in all its sublimity and beauty. Fam- 
 iliar with the histories of all civilized nations, he brought 
 before me the examples of the noble and good who had 
 apparently lived and died for the sole purpose of testing this 
 gjeat power of God to overcome the world ; and, in the 
 absence of all personal trial, there was an abundance of 
 impatient energy in my spirit that led me to sympathise with 
 those who had thus suffered and triumphed. It never struck 
 me that the principles which I could follow so weU in theory 
 were reducible to practice : that I might show a little more 
 becoming submission to my imperious Aunt Betsy, and 
 endure with more patience the hard-tasking and. stern man- 
 ner of Uncle Stephen. 
 
 The latter did not reside with us. He was a bachelor ; 
 and I first remember him living in the High-street of the 
 city, where he kept a silver-smith's and jeweller's shop. He 
 afterwards gave up business and removed to a small house 
 near my grand-father's. He might have been as old as the 
 latter, but he was more robust, and in personal appearance 
 very different. He was short, rather stout, and slightly de- 
 formed ; his head protruding abruptly from between should- 
 ers more than usually prominent and rounded. His hair, of 
 an iron-grey,, curled, closely about his head; his lips were 
 thin, and he had a habit of compressing them that gave to 
 the lower part of his face an unnatural expression ; his eyes 
 were small, black and piercing ; and his countenance altoge- 
 ther had a strong, stern determination about it that struck 
 me in those earlier days as indicating a tyrannical temper of 
 mind, against which I was well inclined to rebel. It was he 
 who sent to my grand-father's house the instrument: — a piano- 
 forte — upon which he gave me instructions in music. He 
 commenced teaching me French before I was two years old, 
 and, when I had become moderately proficient, he would not 
 allow me to address him in any other language. In addition, 
 he gave me a thorough English education, and I had a 
 nutural talent for drawing, which he fostered by providing 
 me with all requisite materials, and the best models for copy- 
 ing. Four hours out of every day, morning and afternoon, 
 
14 MARGARET ', OR, 
 
 he rigidly devoted to my instruction, and lie generally left 
 nie more ttan sufficient work to fill up the rest of my time. 
 What struck me as disagreeable in Uncle Stephen was, that 
 all this seemed a laborious task to liim rather than a work 
 of duty or pleasure. There was no familiarity between us ; he 
 never addressed me by any term of endearment, but came and 
 went like the hard taskmaster he was. If I chanced to 
 satisfy him, he would say, "Tbat_ will do, but you must do 
 better," and I knew that no better doing could draw us 
 closer together as uncle and niece. 
 
 My Aunt Betsy was, perhaps, not quite so old as either of 
 these two, though it would have been difficult to guess her 
 age. Almost as tall as my grand-father, she was of more 
 masculine make, gaunt,' large-boned, and hard-features. 
 Whilst Uncle Stephen's manner always expressed stern reso- 
 lution to go through with a task, hers always expressed 
 impatience. I was never in the, right place, never out of 
 her way ; always making work and doing none. And these 
 complaints did hot spring from any desire that I should help 
 her ; for Aunt Betsy was only in her element when working 
 hard, and she could not in our small household find enough 
 to do. I only made matters worse by ofioring my services ; 
 1 was fit for nothing that fehe could understand, and had 
 better hold my tongue. Yet this rough, hard woman had 
 brought me up from my very birth, and I struggled with 
 my repugnance, and tried to believe that in some yet 
 undiscovered corner of her heart I held a better place then 
 that outwardly assigned to me. 
 
 I believe I was by nature affectionate, and that it was 
 not my fault that I lavished all my afieotion upon my grand- 
 father. There was something genial and benignant abojit 
 him that seemed to infect others, and when in his presence 
 I always found Uncle Stephen and Aunt Betsy more gracious. 
 He had this influence over them, and I soon found it out. 
 Then his small collection of books constituted my sole recre- 
 ation. I read to him of with him, and there was perfect 
 sympathy between us. Our usual sitting-room was crowded 
 with antique furniture that had belonged to my great-grand- 
 father. Grotesquely carved chests and cabinets, and tables 
 with a multitude of twisted legs, and arm-chairs of curious 
 make, all polished bright as the incessant labor of Aunt 
 
PREJUDICE AT HOME. 15 
 
 Betsy could make them. Piled upon these cabinets, or 
 stowed away in the chests, or scattered upon the tables, were 
 worm-eaten editions of ancient works, both religious and 
 profane. Amongst the latter were the old chroniclers. Stow 
 and Camden, Leland and Holinshed ; Defoe's History of the 
 Plague, "Walton's Angler, the works of Bacon, Locke, and 
 Newton, and a fair show of the elder poets and dramatists. 
 It was my Chief delight to pore over these works, and find 
 a vent for my sympathies in them, and form from them 
 some vague notion of the world from which I was so com- 
 pletely shut out. It did not strike me so forcibly as it might 
 have done that my way of life was very odd ; that I had 
 never mixed with children or young people of my own age, and 
 that we had no visitors. If I went out, I was accompanied 
 by one of my three protectors ; but as we had a large gar- 
 den to walk in, I seldom did go out except to the cathedral 
 service. When there I was too much engrossed by the 
 assembled congregation ; T fancied I could read people's 
 charactei;s in their faces, and I had conceived an especial 
 reverence for one old lady who passed in and out, leaning 
 on a gold-headed cane, and followed by a footman. She was 
 very spare in figure, very erect and rigid ; but her hands 
 and head had a palsied movement. There was nothing pre- 
 possessing in her face, which was so shrunken, and wrinkled, 
 and battered by time, that I fairly gave her credit for having 
 once looked more amiable. She reminded me, however, of 
 the devout and noble woman of whom I had read, and there 
 was to me something particularly touching in the piety of 
 the very aged ; in the bowing of the feeble knees and the 
 white head on the verge of eternity. On one occasion, 
 whilst passing out of the cathedral, she dropped her stick. 
 I was close behind her, and I darted forward, picked up the 
 stick, and presented it to her before the footman could 
 interfere. I shall never forget the sudden look of absolute 
 horror with which she drew herself up, and waved me back, 
 and motioned her attendant to take the stick from me. I 
 was sufficiently abashed before Aunt Betsy seized me by the 
 arm, and gave me a gripe and a savage shake that almost 
 made me cry out with pain. 
 
 This was my first attempt to interfere with the arrange- 
 ments of the outer world, of which I knew so little. My 
 
16 maugabet; or 
 
 conduct was reported to my grand-father, wLo gently ad- 
 monished me to keep out of the way of Lady Leigh, who 
 was very proud, for the future. I believe that fiist contact 
 with the world roused all that was evil in my own nature, 
 I had lived so entirely with old people that my sympathies 
 followed the aged rather than the young, and my first 
 emotion was one of intense pain at being, thus scornfully re- 
 pulsed by a person whom I was so well inchned to venerate, 
 I had obeyed a blind instinct which prompted me to help 
 the helpless, and I was told that this was wrong. I had 
 been taught, above all things, to be' courteous, and my first 
 act of courtesy had drawn down wrath upon me from all 
 sides. From Lady Leigh first, because she was proud. It 
 was because I was her inferior in some way, in every way, 
 perhaps that she had repulsed my attempt to render her a 
 slight service. This set me thinking, for the first time, about 
 my position in the world. I knew that it was humble, but 
 I, thought the days were past in Which Christians, professing 
 a creed that inculcates humility, and honors poverty, trampled 
 upon their brethren and stamped disgrace upon an inevitable 
 lot. I had heard so much from my grand-father about the 
 glorious efFect;^ produced by the Reformation, that I felt sure 
 this must be one of them. Indeed, I was simple enough to 
 believe it must be the principal one ; and he was accustomed 
 to speak so enthusiastically about the rapid progress of true 
 Christianity in the world, that I was fully prepared to be 
 greeted by open hearts and arms whenever I entered it. 
 The case of this Lady Leigh must be a peculiar one, or there 
 must be something very wrong about myself. Who was I, 
 after all ? I had been taken to see my mother's grave-stone, 
 which simply bore the name of " Alice," inscribed under that 
 of my grand-mother. I must have had a father, and who 
 and what was he ? I had frequently questioned my grand- 
 father and Aunt Betsy about him, but they evaded my in- 
 quiry, and I had allowed it to drop ; for I noticed that the 
 mention of either of my parents occasioned them great pain, 
 which I attributed to grief for their loss. Now, however, it 
 struck me that there must be some other motive for this, 
 .silence. Mere sorrow for the dead would inevitably yield to 
 tmie : it seemed more probable that some disgrace connected 
 with the past weighed on the spirit of my grand-father, and 
 
PREJUDICE AT HOME. 17 
 
 prompted the secrecy whicli was becoming • oppressive to 
 me, and compelled us to live in the seclusion that I saw was 
 peculiar to ourselves. 
 
 I was astonished that this thought had never occurred to 
 me before, and the feelings it called forth mastered me com- 
 pletely. I was not naturally so tame and docile as I had 
 appeared to be, and my spirit rose up to resist what I con- 
 sidered a wrong and an oppression. It had been no mercy 
 to me to keep me in ignorance of my true position, to allow 
 me to go forth into the world and then learn that the crimes 
 of others had rendered me an outcast. I was indignant alike 
 with those who had thus reared me and with the world, 
 above whose injustice I was determined to rise. 
 
 But I did not speak out at once ; I underwent a terrible 
 conflict before I could summon courage to look the worst in 
 the face. I had been reared with high notions of honor ; 
 I had all that reverence of worth's sake that compels the 
 spirit to shrink from every appearance of evil ; and I felt that 
 , death itself was preferable to the degredation into which I 
 was about to fall. I tormented myself day and night with 
 all manner of conjectures. I knew that my mother was a 
 mere girl when she died ; perhaps hurried to an early grave 
 by the vicious courses of her husband. My suspicions could 
 only fix upon him. Perhaps he had been a murderer, and 
 had suffered the penalty of his crime. I uttered a loud cry 
 of horror at the thought, and flung my hands out wildly with 
 'a sense of loathing for the blood that flowed in them and 
 curdled about my heart. It seemed probable, however, that 
 his crinie was of lesser magnitude, and that he was still 
 living. I had never been told that he was dead ; I had 
 taken it for granted when I was informed that I had no 
 father. When I asked to see his grave, and they said it was 
 not there, I was satisfied. The fact was, that my deep love 
 and reverence for my grand-father, his own earnest truth- 
 fulness, and benignity, and piety, had satisfied me altogether, 
 so that I reposed in an atmosphere of peacefulness and 
 affection to which no breath of distrust might come. He 
 had, too, taught me to forget myself in others, and to find 
 a full life in the undying presence of the great and good of 
 all ages, so that this sudden concentration of aU thought and 
 1* 
 
18 margabbt; oe, 
 
 feeling in my individual destiny seemed to ctange my very 
 nature. 
 
 I, too, had a career to run, and this thought also occurred 
 to me for the first time, — my protectors were all old people 
 who might soon be taken away. What was to become of 
 me ? I had been told that I must earn my own bread, but 
 how was I to be introduced to the world with this load of 
 ignominy upon me ? How was I to endure the natural re- 
 pugnance of the noble and the good ? How, above all, was 
 I to bear this weight upon my own heart through a long 
 life? ^ 
 
 I felt that my grand-father had miscalculated upon the 
 resignation to the will of Providence which he had urged 
 upon me so continually. To content myself with a life of 
 shame seemed against the spirit of all I had been taught ; 
 and, especially in these days to which had descended the 
 doctrine of Christ in all its purity, I felt that it would be 
 terrible to be so branded in the midst of the pure and the 
 godly who were already peopling the whole earth. I wished 
 to bury myself from the eyes of an immaculate world in 
 which my very presence would be an offence. 
 
 This was the idea I had formed of the world, and I felt 
 that it was, the terrible wickedness of my own heart that 
 inclined me to rebel against its decrees. I did not imagine 
 that it would altogether use me ill, but that I should be 
 oppressed by its compassion, tortured by its tolerance. My 
 own horror of everything sinful or dishonorable helped me' 
 to conceive this of others. My opinion of Lady Leight's 
 piety was exalted by the very conduct that inspired me with 
 a fearful sort of hatred. I had given her no time for reflec- 
 tion, and it was the natural instinct of a godly spirit and a 
 pure heart. 
 
 The great hon-or of my cogitations was, that I could not 
 help regarding the rebellious murmurings of my heart as a 
 proof that- 1 had more of the evil of my progenitor in my 
 nature than I should find convenient in a world from which 
 evil of all kinds-was disappearing very fast. Destiny seemed 
 about to drive me the wrong way, in spite of all my cleaving, 
 to the' good, the beautiful, and the holy. 
 
 It will be perceived that I considered myself a person of 
 Bome importance. Was I not a member of the great 
 
PREJUDICK AT HOME. 19 
 
 Christian family wliicli one day I should have to enter 
 bodily? I could not conceive the possibility of being- al- 
 together overlooked by those whose care extended to the 
 heathen and the savage, who hailed the elsewhere proscribed 
 slave by the name of brother, and, as it were, extended their 
 arms to the outcast and the benighted of all lands. Already 
 gathered into this fold, it was important that I should prove 
 myself worthy of the high privileges that awaited me. 
 
 I was suspended betwixt this heaven and my own earthiness. 
 If there were anything in the way to be resisted, I had an 
 instinctive fear that the old natui^ would be uppermost, — 
 that I should find a pleasure in resisting. It was a strange 
 satisfaction to me then to rouse out of my usual quiescent 
 state, and battle with imaginary wrongs and difficulties. If 
 I believed this to be a device of the great enemy of souls, I 
 felt little inclination to attempt its overthrow by doing battle 
 with him. 
 
 I continued in this agitated state for more than a week, 
 undecided what I should say, or to whom I should speak 
 first; I thought that, being no longer a child— for I was 
 nearly fifteen — I had a right to know such particulars of 
 the past as concerned me, and I was resolved not to rest till 
 I had obtained this knowledge. I still shrank from the idea 
 of wounding my grand-father by my importunity, and Aunt 
 Betsy had a decided way of putting me down that left me 
 small hope of getting any information out of her. I resolved 
 to question Uncle Stephen, as the one most likely to take a 
 common-sense view of the matter, and the least likely to feel 
 pained by any calling back of the past. Having formed this 
 resolve, I put it into execution the next time we were alone. 
 
 " Uncle Stephen," I said, " I wish to ask you a few ques- 
 tions. Don't you think I am old enough tci know a little 
 more about myself?" 
 
 "About yourself?" said my uncle, gruffly. "I thought 
 you had been pretty well enlightened by your grand-father 
 on that subject. Has he not taught you to understand that 
 you are a weak, helpless creature — setting aside your strong 
 tendency towards wickedness ? Have you a craving appetite 
 that way ? Do you want to hear anything worse ?" 
 
 " You do not comprehend me," I said, disconcerted by his 
 
20 MARaABsi; ob, 
 
 inanner ; " I wish to learn sometHng more of my family— 
 of my iaihex, for instance. Now, uncle, is lie dead ?" 
 
 " As a good Christian you are bound to helieve that he is 
 living ; in any case', don't trouble your head about him." 
 
 " But I must trouble myself about -him. I do not even 
 know his name. If his memory is a disgrace to you, it is 
 more to me. I am his child ; and no one has a right to keep 
 me in this ignorance." 
 
 " Hey-day ! this is to be a strong demonstration, is it ? 
 Hark you !" he continued, grasping my arm ; " whatever 
 you do, don't fall into a fit of heroics about your father ; he 
 is not worth it. Suppose / was yoiir father! would you 
 think I had been a very kind one, eh ?" 
 
 I could not say I shoidd. I should have expected in a 
 parent even more of the affectionate interest, and pleasure, 
 and pride, that my grand-father had always shown in me. 
 I remained silent. 
 
 " You would not, I see," he continued. " Yet there are 
 worse fathers in the world, Margaret. The fact is, that ac- 
 cording to your ideas of parental excellence, you never had 
 a father. Of course there is, or wa.s, an individual to whom 
 you owe the boon of existence, and at the proper time you 
 shall know all about him. Will that satisfy you ?" 
 
 " No," I said, passionately, " it will not. You know I am 
 old enough to understand that something dreadful is con- 
 cealed under this mystery ; that I am capable of feeling 
 keenly whatever disgrace is in store for me ; that it is a 
 hard task to wait patiently where one has everything to fear, 
 and nothing to hope. I cannot thank you for what you 
 have done for me whilst you leave me in this defenceless 
 state, open to the censure of the world to an extent that I 
 may not comprehend. One thing I am determined about — ■ 
 I will not again quit this house until I know what it is that 
 may make others shrink away from me, as Lady Leigh did 
 the other day." 
 
 My uncle fairly started. " Now you puzzle me," he said. 
 " And you really have retained that circumstance, and set 
 about calculating your chances in life ? Why, you intuitively 
 worldly little person, where did you learn all this ?" 
 
 He spoke in a light, mocking tone that irritated me. It 
 
PEEJUDIOB AT HOME. 21 
 
 seemed cruel to trifle with me in such a matter, and I turned 
 away with proud, angry tears in my eyes. 
 
 " Come, come," he said, passing his' arm round my nect, 
 and drawing my averted face towards him ; " what you ask 
 is quite right, Margaret, and if it had rested with me alone 
 you should have known everything long ago. As to the 
 worlds— go out into it, and lift your head up in it, and be as 
 proud and independent as you like— ^there is nothing to 
 bring shame upon you. But we must do nothing without 
 your grand-father's knowledge, Margaret ; I will speak to 
 him ; and at any rate you shall know all in a few days." 
 
 He kissed my forehead as he spoke. Uncle- Stephen had 
 never exhibited so miich kind feeling before, and coming 
 upon me then in my extremity, I seemed overwhelmed by 
 it. I sat at the table and wept. 
 
 " My poor child !" he said, bending over me. " If you 
 had been left more to ttiy care, this would not have been. 
 But it is not too late, and I am thankful to see that you have 
 common sense. I can deal with that. Trust to Uncle 
 Stephen, and keep quiet." 
 
 I cannot say that I kept very quiet, but in some way 
 Uncle Stephen had reassured me. I might enter the world, 
 as I wished, with my head erect, not bowed down by an in- 
 voluntary humility ; and my chief terror being taken away, 
 the exoiteinent that was still upon me was comparatively 
 painless. 
 
 Aunt Betsy, who kept good hours, always saw me safe in 
 bed and took my light away. On the night following my 
 interview with Uncle Stephen, I felt, too restless for sleep, so 
 I got up and dressed myself. I knew that my grand-father 
 always sat up late, and I was inclined to join him. I knew 
 that I could presume so far on his indulgence ; but Aunt 
 Betsy's room was between us. I listened at the door, and 
 found from her regular breathing that she slept ; and then, 
 with my shoes oflF, I passed through softly, down to my own 
 room. It was called mine, because my piano and all my 
 school-books were there, and I had always pursued my 
 studies in it. It was divided from the sitting-room by a 
 thin wooden partition, the two having originally been one 
 room ; and the light streaming through the chinks of the 
 
22 maesaret; or, 
 
 door assured me that my grand-father was up. I was 
 stooping to put my shoes on, when the outer door opened, 
 and some one entered. I soon discovered that it was Uncle 
 Stephen, though no one spoke. I saw his shadow moving 
 about. I knew his step ; and presently I heard him draw 
 a chair to the fire«and sit down. 
 
 There was a strong temptation upon me to stop and listen 
 to their conversation. I thought it very lively that some- 
 thing would be concealed from me in any revelation that 
 might be made, and I tried to persuade myself that it would 
 be right to arrive at the truth by any means. I was not 
 hard to persuade, though I hngered with a burning blush 
 upon my face, feeling that I was doing wrong. I trembled 
 so that I was compelled to lean against a chair, and in the 
 deep silence I could hear the beating of my heart. Several 
 minutes elapsed, and then I heard Uncle Stephen speak as 
 plainly as if I had been in the room. 
 
 "You have a more than ordinarily spectral look about you 
 to-night, Thomas Marples," he said, " I wish you would try 
 to be as like a mortal as possible, in order to accommodate 
 yourself to my poor clay, for I feel altogether out of sorts." 
 
 " What is the matter ?" asked my grand-father. 
 
 " The matter ! nothing is the matter with me. I should 
 be right enough, if it was not for other people. It is you 
 that I expect will be all wrong by-and-by, and then of 
 course, I must suffer." 
 
 " If there is any new sorrow in store for me let me know 
 it," said jny grand-father ; " I am prepared." 
 
 " There ! how I do hate the stoicism of Christians ; the 
 pertinacious putting -on of the crown of thorns ! Why don't 
 you rip out and say, ' What the devil's the matter now !" 
 then there would be some hope of you." 
 
 " Ours is a strange companionship," said my grand-father ; 
 " I have been musing about it to-night." 
 
 " Not stranger than most of the companionships of this 
 world," said Uncle Stephen,' " and far more honest. Look 
 at the thousands who, professing the same belief, do not 
 expect from one another any of the fruits of it ; men of the 
 world who patronize religion and hold it up to contempt at 
 the same time ; who knowingly enact a daUy lie, professing 
 
PBBJUDICE AT HOMB. 23 
 
 themselves to be members of a church that insists upon 
 humility, and pronounces a curse upon covetousness, yet 
 with all the might that is in them scrambling for precedence 
 and wealth, reckless whom they trample down, or in what 
 company they rise. We at least have a disinterested respect 
 for one another ; we represent the two extremes of belief 
 and unbelief,- and we marvel alike at the inconsistencies 
 around us. We do not spare one another either, and our 
 out-spoken differences help to bind us together. Is it not 
 so?" 
 
 ' " It has been so to a certain extent ; we at least know 
 how far we can trust one another. There is a point at 
 which we stop, and there distrust begins, and sometimes we 
 marvel how we came to be united so closely." 
 
 " That is, you do ; I never marvel at anything. You 
 speak with your wonted sincerity, Thomas, and I like you 
 for it. Your old fear of me is coming back tenfold. I am 
 glad of it; I want a hold upon you somfewhere. You are 
 going to far on the wrong road, and there is no one beside 
 myself to arrest your progress. Now you are older than I 
 am, and I number fifty-seven years ; how much longer do 
 you propose to live ?" 
 
 " I have entered upon the last term of years allotted to 
 man, and may not reckon upon a single day." 
 
 " And you feel easy about leaving yonder child to the 
 tender mercies of this world ?" 
 
 There was a pause : my grand-father did not speak, and 
 Uncle Stephen resumed. 
 
 " You do not : that is right. A clever world it is in many 
 respects — full of science, and philosophy, and steam — ^full 
 of religion, too, and philanthropy on an imposing scale ; 
 but, somehow, there is a dearth of the small change of 
 humanity, that makes it a barren place to the ordinary 
 strugglers for bread. You know no more of this world as 
 it really is than a child — you that pretend to teach others. 
 An old-fashioned dread of evil has prevented your doing 
 any good : your only struggle has been after resignation — 
 contentment with things as they are — the most fatal of all 
 errors." 
 
 " To what purpose would you have me rebel ?" said my 
 
24 MARGARET; OR, 
 
 grand-father. " Sorrow enough, wrong enough, I have had, 
 Grod knows ; if I ean still bide His time, why should I trou- 
 ble myself more and more ?" 
 
 "You speak as if you had only yours^f to think about. 
 Your panacea for all earthly evils, like our mpd,ern pills, 
 won't suit all constitutions. , Content yourself as much as 
 you like with sorrow and wrong, but allow others to resist 
 both, if they like — and can. Confound it, what an odd 
 doctrine you have been preaching all your life ! Fancy a 
 kPation glorying in its poverty, boasting of its weakness, 
 parading the contempt in which it lies as a special mark of 
 God's favor ! To this state Christianity would have brought 
 us, if in all times there had not been men wise enough to 
 see the folly of conforming to its doctrines. The madness 
 is not less when individuals bring themselves or others to 
 this state. _ This is a sin ijpon which the world, sit? in judg- 
 ment." 
 
 " To what purpose is this exhibition of the olo.ven foot to- 
 night, Stephen ? - "Why, before the world, do you still pro- 
 fess Jo honor Christianity.?" 
 
 " Because I would not bring upon myself the rabid wrath 
 of pretenders;' because I like to convict them in their pre- 
 tension. I gave some of thena a f^w hits to-night at the 
 club, when the health bf the new mayor was drank. I did 
 not empty my glass, but proposed an amendment of the 
 toast, and drained the dregs in honor of his private charac- 
 ter as a good brother, &g." 
 
 " Oh, Stephen, you should not have done that 2" 
 
 " They hate me for it, and would kick me out if they did 
 not believe me to be rich.^; I like to see them writhe and 
 fawn at the same time, and. know iow little reason they have 
 to do either." , , . 
 
 " You make me shudder. Such a life in the world, and 
 no life in God ! I was hoping, too, that through my humble 
 means He would touch your heart. You disappoint me, 
 grievously, Stephen." ^ 
 
 " You have, done your best to convert me ; let that reflec- 
 tion console yoii. i ou cannot say that I have not been a 
 patient listener. Have I ever deceived you in anything !" 
 
 "No Stephen, you have kept good faith with me 
 
PREJUDICE AT HOME. ^ 25 
 
 T 
 You were a kind friettd wlieii others turned away from me 
 in my trouble, or remained only to make it more bitter." 
 
 " I will be fair and open with you to tlie end. I came to 
 speak with you about Margaret. It is one of your fallacies 
 to suppose that she is quite happy." 
 
 "What sorrow is there to disturb my child?" 
 
 " What is the power you suppose yourself to possess over 
 the mind that you have tried to prepare for anything but 
 the battle of life?" said Uncle Stephen. "Child! she 
 never was a child ; her whole brief life has been marked by 
 earnest purpose and passionate thought : her mind is vigo- 
 roTis and active, and you might as well try to bind the sur- 
 ges of the sea as check the free flow of its thoughts. This 
 fair page, which you are so fearful of soiling, cannot remain 
 a blank. - With what is it to be filled up — with the truth, 
 bad as it is, or with lies for ever f 
 
 " I have taught her nothing save the truth," said my 
 grand-fathei'. 
 
 " Her whole life has been a cheat, and no one knows it bet- 
 ter than yourself. You have taught her to believe that the 
 world is full of truth, and goodness, and mercy ; and she 
 will have to be rudely awakened from a life-dream. Think 
 of her reverence for those who regard her as an unclean 
 thing — who would not touch her with the hem of their gar- 
 ments ! Could she conceive from any thing you have taught 
 ber, that the cold, thin blood flowing in Lady Leigh's shriv- 
 elled veins would boil up with indignation if she approach- 
 ed her even as a fellow Christian f Yet this woman is zeal- 
 ous about missions, and professes to have a tender care for 
 black souls. Pooh 1 what humbug it is 1" 
 
 " I thought you had some news for me," said my grand- 
 father, after a pause, 
 
 " It is this ; yesterday Margaret again questioned me 
 about her father. I can put off her inquiries no longer, and 
 I have promised that in a few days I will tell her all." 
 
 "You shall not!" 
 
 " I will ! The fact is, she must enter the world \ must 
 know it as it is. Why not start her fairly and honestly f 
 
 " With some of your cold, cheerless philosophy, I suppose, 
 
26 maboaket; oe, 
 
 making a darker wilderness of tliis world, and a blank of 
 the next." 
 
 " I^ay," said Uncle Stephen, " I promised years ago that 
 I would, not interfere with her religions belief. I never 
 promised to keep her in the dark about actnal facts. You 
 are aware, I suppose, that Colonel Leigh has arrived, and is 
 now at bis mother's house. The mayor and corporation talk 
 of inviting him to a public dinner in honor of his glorious 
 campaign in India. On Sunday, Lis nncle, tbe Dean, 
 preaches, and you may expect to see him at the morning 
 service with all his honors thick upon him. Up and down 
 the town men are vieing' with each other as to the best 
 method of paying him respect." 
 
 " All this is nothing to me," said my grand-father. 
 
 " We have made a fair start of forbidden subjects," con- 
 tinued Uncle Stephen, "and the very necesaty of things 
 inust drive us on. It has often struck roe as odd, that 
 Christians, even such as you are, seem to think less of the 
 biclislidings of their brethren than unbelievers like myself 
 can do. It is a marvel to me how yonder Dean can receive 
 this man, bis nephew, with open arms and evident exultation 
 as he does ; how he can mount the pulpit and preach what 
 he professes to be the word of God before him, and never 
 for an instant think of admonishing him on Delected moral 
 duties ; never ?ven himself recognising their existence. Now, 
 if I were a Christian, I could not sit to hear that man preach ; 
 I should have the mocking laughter of devils in my ears. 
 As it is, I mark and' inwardly digest, after a fashion that 
 ■would astonish some of your high churchmen. I should like 
 to put to Colonel Leigh the question I have put to you some- 
 times — what is to become of this child ?" 
 
 " Stephen Leath," said my grand-father, " I must desire 
 you to leave Margaret in iny hands. What it is necessary 
 for her to know I will tell her myself, but not until this man 
 has left the place, which he soon will do. The Lord help 
 rae, for my way is dark and I have only His light to guide 
 me !" 
 
 " I wish you would be guided by the light of reason and 
 fommon sense," said Uncle Stephen. "Well, I know it is of 
 no use talking io you. As to Margaret, she has my promise, 
 
PKEJUDIOK AT HOME. 27 
 
 as I told you. I consider it a duty to let her knoiv all the 
 truth." 
 
 " This must be done under the Lord's guidance," said my 
 grand-father ; "you must leave her to me." 
 
 "She is not to be put off much longer," said Uncle 
 Stephen. " We shall see." 
 
 I heard him put on his greatcoat and walk out -without 
 saying another word : and then the tremulous voice of my 
 grand-father arose in earnest prayer. 
 
 CHAPTEE n. 
 
 It was a very bleak night in the depth of winter, and I 
 had been standing in the cold and the darkness ; hut it was 
 ratlier an inward chill, striking to my very heart, that made 
 me feel as if my blood had turned to ice -vyhen I attempted 
 to move. I had learned from the preceding conversation 
 that Uncle Stephen was not a Christian, and the knowledge 
 seemed to freeze me with horror. It was dreadful, too, to 
 hear him bring accusations against Christians, which my 
 grand-father seemed incapable of answering. Then, in some 
 way, and in spite of myself, my sympathies seemed to go 
 with Uncle Stephen. There was an openness about all he 
 said that commanded respect ; he evidently had my interest 
 at heart ; and from him alone there seemed a chance of my 
 learning all the truth. Then this Colonel and Lady Leigh 
 seemed in some way connected with my early history. It 
 was possible that, through my parents, I had received some 
 wrong at their hands, and, if so, I felt well inclined with 
 Uncle Stephen to resist them. 
 
 The low, earnest tones of my grand=-fa_ther's voice were still 
 sounding in my ears when I cregt back to my own chamber. 
 I had take^a candle with me, and I tried to recollect and 
 *rite down the conversation I had heard. It was altogether 
 painful and bewildering ; and, after all, what I could not 
 help considering the lost state of my uncle was uppermost 
 
28 margaket; oe, 
 
 iu , my mind. I felt that I must be careful about receiving 
 impressions from one who could only be a blind leader of 
 the blind, the more so as the natural corruption of my own 
 heart seemed likely to incline me to error. I was quite 
 conscious of being deficient in the humility and strong faith 
 that made my grand-father patient under wrong and afflic- 
 tion ; but I was earnest in my wish to lead a life of righteous- 
 ness in Chrisf, even because no worthy ambition, no noble 
 purpose could be pursued out of it. 
 
 I fell asleep at length, oppressed by this chaos of thought, 
 and Aunt Betsy aroused me «arly with a rebuke for my 
 idleness. My grand-father had gone out, and we breakfasted 
 together. "It was easy to see that Aunt Betsy had got some- 
 thing on her mind. She was unusually silent, and I caught 
 her looking at me several times in a strange way. She sur- 
 prised me at length by passing her fingers through my hair, 
 which curled naturally. 
 
 " You don't take proper pains with your hair," she said. 
 " Whilst you were a child, I used to wash it every morning, 
 and just pass it round my fingers, and it curled beautifully. 
 To-morrow morning I will do it myself again." This notice 
 of my hair was the more surprising, because Aunt Betey had 
 frequently told me I spent too much time about it, ad- 
 monishing me not to think too much of my personal ap- 
 pearance. 
 
 " I bought a new-ribbon for your best bonnet yesterday," 
 she continued, "for the one you wore all last winter is 
 growing shabby. Fetch the bonnet down stairs, and let me 
 see you trim it nicely." 
 
 Aunt Betsy had been a dressmaker in her young days, 
 and she had taught me to make everything for her and 
 myself. I fetched the bonnet, a brown straw one, stripped 
 off the old trimming, and commenced adorning it with the 
 very pretty brown-and-amber ribbon that my aunt produced. 
 I had some difficulty to please her with my taste. She wanted 
 it to look as becoming as possible, — another singularity that 
 I was unable to account for. When I had at len§,th finished, 
 and put the bonnet on, she turned me round admiringly. 
 
 " You need not be ashamed to show your face," she said 
 tossing her head as she motioned me towards the looking. 
 
PKEJtroiCE AT HOME. 29 
 
 glass. " You are none the worse for being a Marples. Tour 
 mother and grand-mother were both handsome, and you are 
 like your grand-father. I don't see that you owe your good 
 looljs to anybody else." 
 
 This strange outburst of feeling on the part of Aunt Betsy 
 led me to survey myself more intently than, I had ever done 
 before. I was tall for my age, and rather stoutly built. I 
 was certainly like my grand-father. I had the same broad 
 forehead and lar^ brown eyes, looking darker because of the 
 long, black lashes that overshadowed them. My face was 
 oval, my nose straight, my mouth small, with lips delicately 
 chiselled, and terminating in a round chin. My complexion 
 was fair and clear, with a heightened color, and heavy masses 
 of curling brown hair formed a sort of framework to a not 
 unflattering picture. As I stood gazing, the red blood 
 mounted to my forehead, and I turned away with a sudden 
 sense of shame and annoyance at having so readily been 
 betrayed into an absurd admiration of myself. , 
 
 " Yoii always told me. Aunt Betsy," I said, " that good 
 looks were only skin-deep." 
 
 " And that is true," said Aunt Betsey, " of the beauty that 
 young girls only think about. There is something beyond 
 that that proud people seek to keep to themselves. Never 
 mind. To-morrow you shall wear your brown merino dress 
 and mantle ; and I wish you would give up that foolish way 
 you have of looking so humble before strange people. Hold 
 your head a little higher, if you wish that others should 
 think well of you. If you help the world to beat you down, 
 you may keep down." 
 
 This was so unlike what I had ever heard from Aunt 
 Betsy, and so like what Uncle Stephen had said, that I was 
 more and more bewildered. This new doctrine suited me 
 very well, but the ready adaptation alarmed my conscience. 
 The mild teachings of my grand-father, strengthened by his 
 example daring so many years, had taken less hold of me 
 than did this more congenial law of liberty in a few hours. 
 Taught by him to distrust my own heart above all things, I 
 could not help thinking that there was something wrong 
 about my new advisers and myself also. 
 
 On this day when my grand-father came home to dinner 
 
30 margahut; or 
 
 lie told my aunt that be wished her and myself to attend 
 St. Mary's Church on the following morning instead of the 
 cathedral, where we usually went. Without replying, Aunt 
 Betsy contrived to express a very decided objection to this 
 plan ; she sat fuming and tossing her head ; and when my 
 gi-and-father went out he thought it necessary to say, " I 
 expect to be obeyed in this matter." 
 
 I continued groping in the dark, troubling myself with 
 profitless speculations. Had the Colonel Leigh of whom I 
 heard Undo Steph-en speak, anything to do with this prohibi- 
 tion ? I could only conclude that he had, and having seen 
 thus far into the mystery, I could scarcely control the strong 
 excitement that urged me to seek further. 
 
 I did not sefe "Uncle Stephen that day, and I passed the 
 evening as usual with my grand-father in scriptural reading 
 and prayer. I felt like a culprit when he placed his hand 
 on my head and blessed me, and crept to bed bewUdeied by 
 my feverish thoughts about the world. 
 
 I did not sleep, but lay imagining all kinds of things, never 
 coming near the truth. In the morning Aunt Betsy dressed 
 my hair as she had promised, and altogether spent so much 
 time about decorating me that I expressed a fear lest we 
 should be too late for church. 
 
 " It is too late already," said Aunt Betsy ; " we are not 
 going to church this morning." 
 
 " Not going to church after all that trouble !" 
 
 I seated myself at the window and took up a book, but I 
 did not see a word in it. The impatience that had been 
 gathering in my spirit boiled up at so slight an annoyance 
 as this. Scarcely acknowledged to myself there had been 
 an idea in my mind that this day would be an important 
 one ; I thought that Aunt Betsy had not taken such pains 
 about my personal appearance for nothing ; I knew that her 
 thoughts had been unusually occupied ; that she had seemed 
 determined to take her own willful course in some matter, 
 and I had drawn a hope from these circumstances, that 
 now failed me. Nothing is easier than to teach forbearance 
 to those who have no immediate use for it. From the first 
 moment that I felt myself aggrieved I had restrained my 
 feelings only by a strong effort, and it would have been 
 
PREJUDICE AT HOME. 31 
 
 difficult' to persuade me tliat the meek eBduraisoe wLich I 
 had admired in others was applicable to my own case. Alas ! 
 for my poor grand-father 1 he had sown the good seed 
 amongst thorns, aad tke trou.b!e of this world was about to 
 ehoke it ! 
 
 As I oeeasionaJly glanced at Aunt Betfiy, sitting so quietly 
 with her bible before her, it imtated me further to see tha:t 
 all traces of discomposure had vanished from her countenaBce, 
 ihat she had relapsed altogethej- into her uaial frigidity of 
 manner, I believe my dislike to Aunt Betsy originated in 
 this power of hers to sit for horars together noticing do one, 
 and apparently caring for nothing, and looking so stern and 
 determined about it, that one could not muster courage to 
 address her. It was a relief to see her actively employed 
 about household matters ; for then she found a voice, if only 
 to notice faults and coraeot them. There was a restless 
 «nergy about myself that rendered this mood of hers parti- 
 cularly oppressive when we sat at work together. I could 
 bear with my grand-father in his frequent fits of meditation : 
 I knew that he was eommuning with his Ood, and the 
 thought inspired me with reverential respect, if I did not 
 sympathize with him to the extent that I imagined I did. 
 But what in the world was it tiiat so pre-occupied Aunt 
 Betsy, or did she ever think at all ? She was not eminent 
 for jiiety; she never took up a book except the Bible once 
 a week, and she was in the habit of thanking God that, 
 having never maj-ried, she had brought no trouble into the 
 world. This was her manner of informing me tJiat / was 
 a trouble. I could not suppose that it was of a nature to 
 burden the mind in her case; and with regard to the 
 additional drudgery that my presence in the world occasioned 
 her, I tried to lighten it as much as I could. I thought of 
 all these elrcumstanftes as I gazed at her furtively fro^ time 
 to time. She was evidently what is called a strong-minded 
 woman. There was no nonsense, no weakness, about her. 
 If she had been gentle and tender-hearted, I should have 
 wondered whether what I considered her verj' amazing 
 ugliness had not occasioned her much sorrow and disappoint- 
 ment in the course of her past life. As it was, it was 
 evident that she did not think the less of herself on this 
 
32 MARGARET ; OE, 
 
 account, rather taking a pride in making the worst of what 
 was bad enough ; adhering to a most ungainly bygone 
 fashion in dress, especially caps and bonnets. The one good 
 feature in her character, over and above her housewifely 
 trift and acti^dty, was sincerity. She would let you know 
 at once that you must expect nothing further .or better from 
 her than you found. There was no weak point about her 
 to be taken advantage of for good or evil ; her qualities of 
 heart and mind bristled out like the quills of a porcupine, 
 and you only fared the worse by seeking further. I as a 
 child found all this out, and I had no particular admiration 
 of the good faith that I could only wish might be broken. 
 
 Such as she was. Aunt Betsy was the only female of 
 whom I had any personal knowledge, and I had a pleasure 
 in contrasting her, so far as my opportunities offered, with 
 others. At church and in the streets I encountered many~ 
 matronly women with kind and smiling faces; many young 
 girls whose countenances expressed joyousness or an inward 
 complacency to which I was a stranger. I had only just 
 begun to wonder why I was shut out from the free com- 
 munion allowed to others, when the shadow of a terrible 
 doubt fell upon me ; and this doubt gave birth to the vague 
 hope and the subsequent disappointment under which I sat 
 chafing in my aunt's presence. 
 
 The clock was on the stroke of twelve, and neither of us 
 had moved. In a fit of uncontrolable impatience I threw 
 the book I held from me, rose up and looked out upon the 
 garden. 
 
 " What is the matter now i" said my Aunt ; " Are you 
 tired of well doing ?" 
 
 If the well doing had consisted in poring over the book, 
 it was a misnomer, as I had not seen a word in it. I am 
 sure I had never before set Aunt Betsy's authority at naught, 
 as I dicl then by not answering her. 
 
 " You think yourself very ill used, I dare say," she con- 
 tinued. " We must get you out into the world, and then 
 you will see. You may put your bonnet and mantle on 
 now ; I want you to go out with rae ; 
 
 I did not obey her so readily as I should have done a few 
 hours earlier. My very vapory hope had evaporated ; and 
 
PEEJUDICE AT HOME. 33 
 
 disappointment had -wearied me ; and an inactivity of mind 
 succeeded, during which I felt little interest in anything. In 
 this mood, after dressing myself, I joined my aunt. 
 
 She surveyed me attentively from head to foot, seemed 
 satisiied, and desiring me to follow her, walked out, locking 
 the door behind her. As we walked up the long lane that 
 led into the cathedral-yard my interest revived. I might 
 well wonder whither we were bound, considering that we 
 had no acquaintance, and that the Morning Service at church 
 was nearly over. We met no one ; but on approaching the 
 cathedral we saw several carriages waiting for their respec- 
 tive owners. Aunt Betsy walked round to the western front, 
 and paced backwards and forwards, frequently looking up at 
 the clock ; suddenly she seized my arm and dragged me 
 towards the usual entrance. She ascended the steps and 
 stationed herself by the door, still holding me fast. One of 
 the carriages had drawn up, and in the footman who stood 
 at the open door of it, I recognised the man who usually 
 attended Lady Leigh. My heart was already beating rapidly 
 . when Aunt Betsy said, in a deep whisper, " Would you like 
 to see your father ?" I had only just turned and fixed my 
 eyes upon her when she stretched out her arm and said 
 aloud, " That is your father !" 
 
 The personage at whom she pointed was a tall, handsome, 
 military-looking man, of middle age, who was just approach- 
 ing from the interior with Lady Leigh hanging upon his 
 arm. I saw her, though I saw nothing else save him. I 
 sprang forward and stood before them, so that I impeded 
 their progress. I stood doubtless, in a very theatrical atti- 
 tude ; with clasped hands, and eyes expressing all the deep 
 -interest of my heart and soul. I heard Lady Leigh utter a 
 shrill scream ; whether she fell, or was carried away by some 
 one, or walked away of her own accord, I never knew, but 
 I did know that the tall man and myself stood alone for the 
 space of a few seconds, face to face, and that, as I gazed, a 
 dark frown gathered on his countenance. Then some one 
 drew me away, and I heard the voice of my grand-father. 
 
 He led me into the interior and down one of the aisles. 
 I scarcely felt his grasp upon my arm, or my own footfalls ; 
 I was as one in a wild dream. Yet I had a perception of 
 
 2 
 
34 MARGARET ; OB, 
 
 the truth, and the blood, that had just been chilled by emo- 
 tion, burned on laj cheeks and seemed to scorch my heart. 
 " How have you been lead into this folly ?" said my grand- 
 father. " You have not dealt fairly with me, Margaret." 
 
 I was about to reply impatiently, but checked myself. 
 Amid all the tumult of my feelings I was enabled to take a 
 common-sense view of the matter, and I had a strong will 
 to do right when what was right became clear to me. — 
 " Cling to them that cling to you," says Dr. Johnson, and I 
 had at the moment a full consciousness of the wisdom of 
 his words. My heart turned more than ever .to this kind 
 and pious old man, who had nurtured me so tenderly, though 
 my very existence had probably constituted the sole dis- 
 grace of his own blameless life. Understanding in what true 
 nobleness consisted, I was repelled at once and for ever by 
 those who, if I had any claim upon them, seemed determin- 
 ed to disregard it and me. 
 
 " Do not be angry, dear grand-father," I said ; " and do 
 
 . not fear me. I must have come to this knowledge some 
 
 day, and it is better to know at once in what and jvhom I 
 
 have to trust. I belong to you, and for the future you shall 
 
 guide me entirely." 
 
 " God bless thee, my poor child !" he said, in a hurried, 
 broken voice ; " wait here until all the people are gone, and 
 then we will walk home." 
 
 He left me, and I paced up and down the solitary aisle. 
 I found fi-esh matter for reflection in what he had said. — 
 Were Lady Leigh and her son quite free from blame, that 
 they could thus walk boldly forth in the crowd ; and what 
 was the particular ignominy that compelled us to shrink 
 from the gaze of our fellow mortals ? I had a good deal to 
 learn, and I was ready enough for the tempter when Uncle 
 Stephen came up and tapped me on the shoulder. 
 
 "You are getting on," he said, "and presently you will 
 understand this game of life. Do you yet comprehend what 
 it is that is worshipped in this Christian temple ?" 
 
 " Men profess to worship God in it," I replied. 
 
 " Eight," he said, " that is what they profess, and nothing 
 is easier than profession. You might have had a good illus- 
 tration of their practices at the door just now, where the 
 
PREJUDICE AT HOME. 35 
 
 congregation stood bowing and smirking before the Dean 
 and his nephew, the Gallant Colonel Leigh. Men worship 
 things essentially earthly, Margaret ; money, position, fame, 
 — nothing else. I wish you to understand the true value of 
 this world's sympathy." 
 
 " You are speaking of a few," I said ; " there are Chris- 
 tians ill the world, — my grand-father is one of them." 
 
 " The only one I ever met with," said Uncle Stephen ; 
 ^' and what has he gained by it 1 — sorrow, and wrong, and 
 pontempt. Is it possible that you have never rightly under- 
 stood the doctrine preached to you in' these very walls — 
 that there is a necessary connection between moral and ma- 
 terial well being ? Yonder Dean, or Archdeacon Dixon, 
 will demonstrate to you the utter impossibility of poverty 
 being combined with worth ; and this doctrine has gone the 
 length and breadth of the land, and is obliterating all traces 
 of a creed obsolete except in its name. You have some 
 sense about you, Margaret ; you shall hear the story of your 
 birth, and judge for yourself ; you shall go out into the 
 world, and tell me what you find amongst this Christian 
 people." 
 
 " You are not a Christian, uncle Stephen," I said. 
 
 " And, therefore, you think I am prejudiced 1 How do 
 you know I am not a Christian ? Have you just discovered 
 the fact, or did you surmise it years ago from my actions ?" 
 
 " Nay, Uncle Stephen, you have always acted like a Chris- 
 tian towards me ; I never understood so well as I do at this 
 moment, how much I owe to you." 
 
 " Never trouble your head about names," said Uncle Ste- 
 phen ; " you will find enough to trouble you in this hard 
 world. Never inquire into motives ; if you meet with rea- 
 sonable treatment from any human being, be thankful, and 
 inquire no further. Beware of the vision of Christian com- 
 munion that your grand-father has placed before you ; t^ere 
 is no such thing in life, as experience will shortly teach you. 
 If you would not be altogether despised and crushed down, 
 respect yourself, — struggle for yourself. Put all prejudices 
 aside ; resist evil in every shape ; — ^you have the stuff in 
 you ; be determined to rise, and then I shall feel that I have 
 not bestowed my pains in vain." 
 
36 margaket; ok, 
 
 This was the last doctrine I listened to in that temple of 
 God which I never entered again. Uncle Stephen left me 
 as he spoke, and when my grand-father came we walked 
 home together. Neither of us spoke by the way, and when 
 ■we arrived, we found Aunt Betsy busy as usual, and looking 
 as if nothing had happened. Dinner passed over in silence, 
 and it was not mitil we were all seated quietly together that 
 my grand-father spoke. 
 
 " You have acted unadvisedly, Betsy Marples," he said ; 
 " but what is done cannot be undone. We now owe to this 
 child an explanation of the past." 
 
 " I would do it again if it was to be done," said Aunt 
 Betsy, in her determined manner. " It was right that the 
 child should see her father ; if they meet in the world now, 
 they will know one another." 
 
 There was no further contention. I learned from both of 
 them, and subsequently from Uncle Stephen, the particulars 
 which I here give in tlie form of a detached narrative. 
 
 David Marples, the newly elected mayor of , 
 
 was an important man in his native city. By a remarkable 
 talent for pushing and driving in the world, he had acquir- 
 ed great wealth, and along with it much respectful conside- 
 ration from those abou^ him. The son of a verger of the 
 cathedral, he had received his education at the parish school, 
 from which he was transferred to a warehouse as errand-bov. 
 
 Rising by degrees, and shifting for himself, he at length 
 set up as auctioneer, for which calling a certain amount of 
 assurance and general knowledge of business matters seemed 
 peculiarly to fit him. Entering into various speculations, he 
 occasioned men to marvel at the rapidity and ease with 
 which he acquired wealth, which finally flowed down upon 
 him*in a deluge, that went nigh to obliterate every trace of 
 his obscure origin. Having himself an eye to this deside- 
 ratum in whateve'r he did, David, rather late in life, united 
 himself to j;he daughter of a rich Liverpool merchant, and 
 thereafter flourished in full blown dignity at his handsome 
 mansion within half a mile of the city. 
 
PREJUDICE AT HOME. 3? 
 
 Applause so naturally follows success of any legitimate 
 kind, tliat it is no wonder David rose high in the considera- 
 tion of his fellow citizens. It is a nohle sight to see a poor 
 man striving after independence ; many instinctive yearnings 
 go with him in a career that promises to take him out of 
 all possihility of hecoming a burden upon the community, 
 and to open before him a large sphere of usefulness to others. 
 But for one man who, taking this view of the case would 
 feel humbled and disappointed to see such acquisition of 
 wealth and power used only for the indulgence of selfish and 
 animal ends, and the fostering of vulgar pretension, there 
 are thousands ready to pay court on any terms to men so 
 favored by fortune as David Marples. 
 
 It had suited Mr. Marples to forget, for the last twenty 
 years, that he had a brother much older than himself ; and 
 the community had favored Mr. Marples by forgetting the 
 fact to a great extent also. Indeed, nothing is so easy as to 
 put poverty in the back-ground, especially in this free 
 country ; and the quiet, unobtrusive character of Thomas 
 Marples had helped to bring about this state of affairs. 
 Altogether unfitted for enterprise, being of a retired and 
 studious disposition, he had readily yielded to the guidance 
 of others in the matter of worldly occupation ; and when, at 
 a suitable age, his father found him a place as clerk in a . 
 lawyer's office, he offered no remonstrance, though the dry 
 copying of legal documents was a monotonous task for one 
 whose mind was peculiarly active, with regard to certain 
 pursuits that would have- been well enough for one who had 
 no need to earn his own bread. Thomas Marples had about 
 him every mark of a man destined to a life of obscurity. 
 He was singularly pious, after the old-fashioned manner that 
 makes a man patient and long-suffering ; being too deeply 
 impressed with his own short-comings to take invidious notice 
 of the failings of others. This disposition had been fostered 
 in his early years. His mother, though an ignorant, had 
 been an eminently pious woman, who labored earnestly for 
 the spiritual advancement of her children ; and being 
 possessed of a fine voice and some musical knowledge, he 
 was early admitted into the cathedral choir. Fond of an- 
 tique research, especially as connected with ecclesiastical his- 
 
88 margarbt; or, 
 
 tory, the old catliedral itself was a rich mine of wealtli to 
 him. He loved to linger amid the spacious aisles, com- 
 muning with times long past, and only exulting in the pre-. 
 sent because he believed on them had dawned a purer faith, 
 to whose ultimate results in regenerating the whole earth he 
 looked confidently. Taking his stand on God's word, no 
 falling-short of that high standard of Christian life in church 
 or laymen could shake his faith, though he saw enough to 
 impart a sad tone to a mind otherwise inclined to be uni- 
 formly though sedately cheerful. This peculiar disposition, 
 inclining him to a reserve that had nothing of moroseness in 
 it, made him very unpopular with those of his own age who 
 were incapable of appreciating, or even understanding his 
 character. What little intercourse he held "with them, 
 confirmed this ill opinion. His meekness was construed as 
 meanness : his horror of actual sin was a species of cant that 
 was unendurable : and save that home-example bore him up. 
 Thomas Marples had no outward encouragement to persevere 
 in a course that threatened to mar all his prospects in a 
 worldly sense. 
 
 Nevertheless, he led an active life in his own ,way. Every- 
 where scattered about this hard .world, lie souls perishing 
 through sheer dearth of spiritual help ; hearts pining away 
 through want of true sympathy ; and amidst the very poor 
 of his native city was opened to the eccentric young man a 
 wide sphere of usefulness. Sorrow, and sickness, and death, 
 threw aside many a door to him, through which he entered, 
 bearing with him the light of Christ, and never failing to 
 dissipate somewhat of the dense darkness he usually found 
 there. For though religion was considered to be the staple 
 
 commodity of the old ecclesiastical city of , infidelity 
 
 and utter spiritual darkness had their strongholds in many 
 an odd nook and corner, to say nothing of the more general 
 spiritual indifference which seemed to stand in no awe of the 
 legitimate upholders of a good which is not of this world. 
 
 And from amidst the very poor Thomas Marples selected 
 as his wife a young woman, whose whole family had been 
 suddenly swept away by a virulent fever, that during several 
 weeks had kept the bells of the churches tolling. If theirs 
 was not an ordinary courtship, it was one that bade fair for 
 
PEBJOBICB AT HOME. 39 
 
 a happy continuance of the sentiments that bound them 
 together ; for gratitude on one side, and pity on the other, 
 was blended with an esteem for the character of each, that- 
 had sprung up amid scenes of death and desolation, whose 
 Impression could not be obliterated by time. And when, 
 after the death of his father, Thomas succeeded to his office 
 as verger, and saw his young family springing about him, he 
 felt happy aud grateful, trusting in God's good providence 
 and his own exertions for the future. Far from envying his 
 brother what was generally considered his good fortune, his 
 heart was filled with a godly sorrow for him, knowing that 
 the riches of this world take to themselves wings and fly 
 away, and that he was cleaving to an unsubstantial good. 
 It was a great grief to him, too, in his joy as well as in his 
 subsequent sorrow, to feel that all brotherly communion with 
 one so near to him was withheld. For the faith of Thomas 
 Marples was destined to be tried in the fiery furnace of 
 affliction, and one by one his children dropped into the grave, 
 — the last survivor, a fair and fragile girl, giving small 
 promise of being reared to womanhood. In this child, the 
 afiFections of both parents centred with an intensity that 
 frequently prompted Thomas himself to pray against yielding 
 to the idol-worship to which the human heart is too much 
 .prone.. Yielding to a presentiment that he should lose her, 
 though in a manner different to what happened, he more 
 sedulously applied himself to the task of sowing the good 
 seed, and leading her thoughts to God. And the girl was a 
 docile and gentle, and apparently earnest recipient of these , 
 teachings, which had always formed so large a part of her 
 brief life. Brought up in seclusion and in constant com- 
 munion with two earnest spirits, there was an air of refine- 
 ment about her that added a grace to her fragile beauty, — 
 a solemnity of thought that prevented her shy, timid manner 
 degenerating into awkwardness. Over the mother's heart 
 no such cloud as that which overshadowed Thomas Marples 
 lingered. Already bereaved almost beyond her woman's 
 endurance, the thought of losing this last treasure was 
 banished, simply because it was more than she could bear ; 
 and she yielded, not always without self-reproach, to a feeling 
 of pride in her daughter's beauty, which was talked of far 
 
40 MARGARET; OB 
 
 and near, and wHoli frequently attracted the notice of the 
 visitors to the cathedral, where she was often to be found at 
 the side of her father, who had familiarised her with every 
 record of the place. Much in this way had come to the 
 knowledge of Mrs. Marples, which she did not repeat to her 
 husband, and which made her own heart tremble even while 
 the gratified vanity of a mother filled her eyes with proud, 
 deep-drawn tears. The delicacy of constitution, united to a 
 corresponding sensitiveness of mind, that had impressed 
 Thomas Marples with a conviction that his child would die 
 early, had only served, united with her beauty, to lead the 
 mother to a belipf that she was destined to rise out of her 
 station ; to carry the grace of her gentle manners and her 
 piety to a sphere far above that in which she had been born. 
 There was something too exacting and secret in this mother's 
 pride to be borne easily ; and to Margaret Marples, when she 
 knelt down in prayer, came ever a conviction that she had 
 strayed from the right way in encouraging hopes in which 
 she knew her husband would not share, — thoughts that 
 formed for the first time a gulf betwixt their free communion. 
 He, too, had his secret ; he had consulted a physician, who 
 gave him little hope that Alice's life might be spared, though 
 the symptoms of the insidious disease that had swept away 
 the rest of his children were as yet only slightly developed 
 in her. By day and by night he prayed for»strength to 
 communicate this worst sorrow to his wife. 
 
 Meanwhile the bloom on Alice's cheek deepened, her eyes 
 grew brighter, and Thomas Marples listened night after 
 night to the dry, short cough that broke the stillness of her 
 chamber, ije knew that the time was come in which he 
 could delay his painful task no longer. 
 
 Alice had been invited to spend a week with the family 
 of a farmer residing some miles from the city, and her father 
 took the opportunity of her absence to prepare his wife for 
 an approaching longer separation. But Margaret Marples 
 had allowed her heart to wander too far away into the world 
 to allow the two to weep together as those who are not 
 without hope ; and she rebelled against the dispensation with 
 a pertinacity of despair that more than all his previous 
 sorrow burdened the soul of her husband. Her first impulse 
 
PKEJUDICE AT HOME. 41 
 
 was to fly to her child, with a yague thought tha^ by being 
 near her she could detain her longer upon earth ; but even 
 while she was making preparation to go, a messenger arrived 
 who was destined to prove to her that there are worse evils 
 upon earth than the evil of death. 
 
 The burly farmer at whose house she had been staying, 
 arrived early in the morning in a state of great perturbation. 
 Alice, he said, had been missing since the preceding evening, 
 She had gone alone in the twilight to visit at a neighboring 
 farm-house, which, however, she had not reached. After 
 sending there and not finding her, they had searched the 
 country round all night. A shepherd-boy said he had heard 
 the screams of a woman, and a laborer had noticed a post- 
 chaise driving rapidly along the road just at the fall of the 
 night. Was it possible that Alice had been carried away by 
 force, and by whom, and for what ? 
 
 God punishes with immediate stripes the disobedience of 
 His chosen, though He bears long with the iniquity of them 
 that bide His time. Margaret Marples fell, stricken ahke 
 by conviction and death, when she heard this terrible doom 
 of one whom she had grudged giving to the Lord in her 
 purity. Frail in health, and riper for the sickle than she 
 had imagined herself to be, the mortal part gave way at 
 once. Into the agonised heart of her husband she poured 
 the full tide of her most penitential confession, and died with 
 a prayer upon her lips for him and for the lost. The most 
 just and upright amongst men have their times in which to 
 cry — "All thy waves have gone over me," and so Thomas 
 Marples cried now. He left the corpse of his wife to join in 
 the vain search for Alice. Nothing further was to be learned 
 except that the post-chaise was seen by others on its course, 
 but the track was soon lost. "Every means of obtaining 
 information was tried without avail, and after weeks of vain 
 effort and agonising suspense, Thomas Marples rested in a 
 stupor of grief that left him helpless, hopeless, prayerless. 
 
 No heavier affliction could have fallen upon him than this. 
 He had resigned himself to the thought of yielding his child 
 to God ; but to lose her thus in the world, young as she was 
 — scarcely fifteen — hovering on the brink of the grave as 
 she was ; the thoughts that crowded upon him were too 
 2* 
 
42 MARGARET; OR, 
 
 iibrrible to be borne ; and •hj day and by- night his fast 
 friend, Stephen Leath, watched him as he writhed in his 
 strong agony, fearing to leave even him, great as had been 
 his faith and trust in the Lord, alone with that mighty 
 sorrow shaking his very soul in its helplessness as a reed is 
 shaken by the tempest. In those terrible hours to which 
 Thomas always dreaded looking back, Stephen Leath was a 
 great stay to him. For though the latter was no believer in 
 Christianity, and there was only the human sympathy be- 
 tween them, this was much at a time when most others kept 
 aloof, or stung him by lamenting that Alice had not been 
 differently brought up ; by repeating all that had been before 
 repeated about making a show of her beauty, and by dragging 
 forward various prophecies that she would come to some such 
 end. By shutting the door against this croaking, even when 
 it came in the shape of Canon Dixon himself, Stephen stood 
 his friend in good stead, at a time when he needed no 
 aggravation of his sharp sufferings. He was the better able 
 to perform those good offices, because he was generally sup- 
 posed to be rich, and none knew better than he that such a 
 reputation secured to him privileges that might be turned to 
 account in aiding the oppressed. That no thought of using . 
 them for a selfish purpose ever entered his heart was some 
 proof that he had not altogether strayed out of the right 
 way. _ 
 
 This Stephen Leath, also the son of parents in rather 
 humble circumstances, was an early companion to both the 
 brothers Marples. Though, being himself of an enterprising 
 turn, he might have been supposed to have had most sym- 
 pathy with David, the younger of the two, a mutual dislike 
 kept them asunder even in boyhood,"whilst betvrixt the elder 
 and himself a strong attachment sprung up that survived all 
 their after-differences of opinion. Stephen Leath seemed to 
 tread fast in the steps of David Marples in the matter of 
 worldly success. He was apprenticed to a silversmith and 
 jeweller, to whose business he eventually succeeded; his 
 only sister was married to an attorney, with whom she 
 removed to London ; and Stephen, in his bachelorhood and 
 with his flourishing business, was looked upon as a man 
 likely to acquire much wealth. 
 
PREJUDICE AT HOME. 43 
 
 Betwixt him and his friend Thomas Marples there was the 
 sympathy of congenial tastes. Both were eager in the 
 pursuit of knowledge, both had great musical talent, and 
 Stephen possessed a natural genius for the acquisition of 
 languages, making himself master of several dead as well as 
 living tongues. Whatever it was that in his worldly struggle 
 had caused him to sink into the chaos of infidelity, he kept 
 his own counsel, attending the church and advocating the 
 cause of Christianity after his own caustic manner, and only 
 confiding his real opinions to Thomas Marples, with whom 
 he could not dissemble, and from whom alone he could bear 
 contradiction or reproof. For respecting in the latter, what 
 was with him a sincere practice, fr^e from conventional pro- 
 fession, he could listen to his frequent long admonitions with 
 admirable patience, and even rejoice at the actual good 
 resulting from the belief of his unfortunate and single-minded 
 friend. 
 
 And thus it happened, that when in his great aiSiction 
 Thomas Marples seemed to reject all consolation, Stephen 
 was the only one at hand to remind him that he was dis- 
 honoring the faith to which he had cleaved through life ; 
 and such a rebuke coming from such a quarter had its effect 
 in rousing him, in bringing to his soul a startling conviction 
 of its heavy sin in thus making nought before the eyes of an 
 unbeliever of the rich stores of God's grace ; and he forth- 
 with girded himself up and went straight to Christ with his 
 heavy trouble, and found the chaos of his thoughts shaped 
 into a plan and a purpose. 
 
 For when the tumult of his mind had thus, in some degree, 
 subsided, it seemed clear to him that the abductor of his 
 daughter (he never for a moment imagined that she had 
 gone away of her own freewill) was a man of wealth, and 
 one who had some knowledge of him and his concerns ; and 
 bringing into review before him the families of note in the 
 neighborhood, he fixed upon that of the widowed Lady Leigh, 
 the sister-in-law of the Dean, and daughter of an earl, whose 
 son, a lieutenant in the army and noted for his wild courses, 
 had recently been down on a visit to his relatives. His 
 suspicions fastened upon this man with a pertinacity that 
 might not be put aside ; and confiding them to Stephen 
 
44 Margaret; or, 
 
 Leath, the latter approved of his determination to go to 
 London, vowed that he would see him and his child righted 
 if it cost him all he was worth, and took upon himself the 
 task of shutting up the desolate house after Thomas Marples 
 departed. 
 
 Alice had heen missing two months when her father 
 arrived in London.' He proceeded at once to the Army and 
 Navy Club and there obtained the lieutenant's private address, 
 but it was many days- before he could meet with himself. 
 When he did at length obtain an interview, the well-feigned 
 astonishment of the lieutenant at the charge preferred against 
 him, his ready sympathy with the bereaved father, and above 
 all, his solemn protestations of innocence, staggered Thomas 
 Marples, and he was beginning to be ashamed of his suspi- 
 cions in this quarter when he detected a glance of intelligence 
 betwixt the master and his servant, who was present, that 
 served to confirm -them at once. He resolved not to leave 
 the house until his child was restored to him, and the result 
 was that he was handed over to the police, and on the follow- 
 ing day brought before the sitting magistrate at Marlborough- 
 street. Thomas Marples told his own tale, but he could 
 bring forward no proof to sustain the chai-ge ; and when the 
 lieutenant protested, " on his word of honor," that he knew 
 nothing of the girl, the magistrate was satisfied, and the dis- 
 consolate father was warned not to continue the system of 
 annoyance he had commenced. 
 
 He wrote immediately to Lady Leigh and the Dean, 
 reiterating his own conviction and begging their interference ; 
 and a letter arrived from the latter to say that " if his nephew 
 had formed an improper connection, means would be taken 
 to break it off." Those few cold words, and nothing more. 
 It was not known to Thomas Marples that the lieutenant was 
 on the eve of proceeding to India with his regiment ; he 
 knew nothing of this intention until he heard that he had 
 already set sail, and then he was beset by a new horror — 
 had Alice departed with him ? 
 
 Overcome by "fatigue and distress, he was lying sick at his 
 lodgings, when Stephen Leath arrived, bringing with him a 
 letter from Alice. It was dated from a small street in 
 Pimlico. Shame, and heart-broken sorrow, and sickness 
 
PEEjnDICB AT HOME. 45 
 
 unto death, had conspired to make it almost illegible. It 
 stated that she had no money to take her home if she could 
 summon strength or courage to return there ; it spoke, too, 
 of horrors from which she must fly at once or die, and she 
 implored that her parents would see her once more. It was 
 not long before the father received his fainting child into 
 his arms ; and then he and Stephen Leath listened to a tale 
 of inhuman outrage that went nigh to drive them both mad. 
 The child had never spoken with Lieutenant Leigh, only just 
 knew him by sight, until she met him under that roof, where 
 she had arrived in a state o? terror that threatened her with 
 instant dissolution. He was alarmed at her state and left 
 her, and she was attended by the woman of the house, and 
 soothed with promises of being sent home. She was kept a 
 close prisoner, and not allowed to write ; and one evening . 
 she fell into a stupor that she thought was the approach of 
 death, but she awoke from it to understand that she had 
 been fearfully wronged, and then she bowed down her head 
 in deep shame, and prayed to die. 
 
 Unable to overcome her deep horror at his presence, the 
 lieutenant ceased to trouble her with his visits, and at length 
 a letter arrived from him in which he advised her to return 
 home. She was too ill to undertake a journey by herself ; 
 she had no money, for he sent her none ; and, above all, 
 shame had bowed down her very soul, and she shrank from 
 the thought of seeing those who had known her in her purity. 
 In this state, the mistress of the house informed her that she 
 must provide herself with other lodgings, or with means of 
 payment ; and she recommended a life of infamy : and then 
 the girl's spirit was roused, and she wrote to her father. 
 
 Thomas Marples carried the wreck of his dying child 
 home, and the thoughtfulness of Stephen Leath had prepared 
 everything for their reception. 
 
 "When David Marples saw fit to forget his brother, he 
 resigned a sister to the same oblivion. Betsy Marples, being 
 an only daughter, had devoted a large portion of her life to 
 attendance on an infirm mother, who lived to a great age. 
 Working hard at her business of dressmaking, she contrived 
 to maintain an independence, of which she was proud, and 
 on which she would not allow any one to encroach. Sharp 
 
46 maegarkt; oh, 
 
 in temper, and altogether eccentric, she teld little inter- 
 course even with her favorite brother Thomas, and no one 
 dared mention before her the name of David, of v^hose ex- 
 istence she was more oblivious than he could be of hers, as 
 her subordinate place in the town, like his brother's, was a 
 constant annoyance to him. It wa% a marvel to many, and 
 to none more than Thomas Marples himself, how Stephen 
 Leath had prevailed upon this hard-tempered and self-con- 
 tained woman so far as to induce her to break through all 
 the habits of her previous life, and entirely devote herself to 
 her kindred in their sore extremity. The unhappy travellers 
 found her in the home to which they hastened ; all that was 
 womanly in her nature was roused by the sufferings of Alice ; 
 and, if she could not supply the place of the mother that 
 was lost, she would suffer no strange hand to interfere, but 
 faithfully performed the duties of the place she had taken. 
 
 Alice lingered through four months, and died in giving 
 premature birth to a female child. This child, contrary to 
 all expectation, was strong and healthy, and Betsy Marples, 
 now secluded altogether from the world, devoted herself to 
 the task of rearing it. The townspeople readily fell in with 
 the humor of her and her brother to keep entirely to them- 
 selves. There was a general idea that Alice Marples had 
 taken a great liberty in going pS with the nephew of the 
 Dean, and the son of so dignified a person as Lady Leigh ; 
 and, though both stood aloof in lofty security and scornful 
 silence, and would have been horrified at any one mentioning 
 the circumstance to them as in any way concerning them- 
 selves, it seemed a matter of propriety that every man should 
 set his face against that portion of the Marples family with 
 whom had originated an attempt to invade the peace of 
 distinguished people. 
 
 Thomas Marples himself voluntarily bowed down his head 
 with humility. He had prided himself in an honest name, 
 and his heart seemed to wither at the breath of disgrace. It 
 was too late to seek for redress, and his religion forbade him 
 to cherish feelings of revenge, and he felt that enough was 
 known of the circumstances to claim for his child all the 
 forbearance that might be hoped for from earthly judges. 
 Going even amongst the poor and the afflicted less than was 
 
PRBJtoftCB AT, HOME. 4Y 
 
 Ms wont, he obtained the soubriquet of the "spectre verger," 
 from the circumstance of being seldom seen except at his 
 post. And as age crept on him, and the child grew, these 
 habits of seclusion became more confirmed. Centering all his 
 affections in her, and jealous of her happiness, he dreaded 
 above all things her coming in contact with those who might 
 taunt her witlji the stigma of her birth, and so overcloud her 
 mind with the shadows of sin and sorrow before its impulses 
 were trained or its energies developed. Margaret Marples, 
 therefore, was brought up in solitude ; and Stephen Leath, 
 besides devoting himself more than ever to bis friend, ket 
 himself the task of superintending her education. He found 
 her of quick capacity, and began to take delight in his work. 
 Leaving her religipus instruction entirely to her grand-father, 
 he labored hard to perfect her in such studies as would 
 enable her to be a teacher of others ; and her own diligence 
 and natural bent towards inquiry and improvement were his 
 reward. 
 
 This seclusion of the child, Margaret Marples, and this 
 training superior to her station, which some way became 
 known, was an additional offence in the eyes of many. It 
 was remembered against Thomas Marples-that he had brought 
 up his daughter Alice in much the same way, in defiance of 
 the remonstrances of Archdeacon Dixon, who had urged him 
 to send her to the parish school, and subsequently into 
 service. It amused Stephen Leath, who was too rich to be 
 assailed in a coarse manner, to see how the general obloquy 
 worked against himself; for he came in for a share of it. 
 Men touched him tenderly on the subject of wasting his time 
 and money in a mistaken care for others ; and Archdeacon 
 Dixon, in a very bland manner, admonished him on the folly 
 of fostering pretence in people who could only be ruined by 
 imbibing ideas that were unsuitexl to their station. Hearing 
 all and saying little, Stephen Leath persevered in his own 
 way until the child Margaret had nearly attained her fifteenth 
 year ; and then there came a rumor that Lieutenant, now 
 Colonel Leigh, was about to return from India, loaded with 
 honors, after an absence of fifteen years. 
 
48 
 
 CHAPTER ni. 
 
 This was the substance of wliat I learned, cMefly from 
 Uncle Stephen. He was outspoken, because he wished to 
 neutralise the eflfect of my grand-father's teaching, which 
 led me to expect more from the world than I should find. 
 My first feeling was an intense loathing for Colonel Leigh 
 and all his kin, that extended to myself ; so that I would 
 gladly have poured into the earth the portion of blood I in- 
 herited from them. The outburst of my own sco^n was too 
 full and earnest to admit of a care about theirs, with the 
 world to approve and back it. I was sufficiently ■ sustained 
 by contemplating in them the cold-blooded villany , and ig- 
 noble subterfuge and unblushing mock-worship that excited 
 my abhorrence, and to which I could not myself stoop, I 
 was too young and inexperienced, too much accustomed to 
 look at and reverence the word of God as it stood, to be- 
 lieve that such conduct could pass unreproved amongst a 
 Christian people, much less receive general approbation. 
 
 I still distrusted Uncle Stephen, as one who evidently was 
 strongly prejudiced against Christians and Christianity ; the 
 more so, when I learned from Aunt Betsy that he did not 
 even believe in the existence of a God. If what he said 
 respecting the world was true, I had more than ever need of 
 'God as a refuge from its injustice. His doctrine was so re- 
 volting to me, so altogether unnatural, that I could not help 
 shrinking from him, even while I admired and respected his 
 steady fiiendship for my grand-father, and felt grateful for 
 the great care and pains he had bestowed upon myself, who 
 had no claim upon him. There was some unacknowledged 
 faltering in my resistance to Uncle Stephen's view of things. 
 
PREJUDICE AT HOME. 49 
 
 In losing him as aa uncle I had gained another, a man of 
 wealth and reputation, an undoubted Christian ; for he was 
 a great benefactor to St. Mary's Church, which he constantly 
 attended, and a promoter of missions ; yet from this man I 
 had never received any notice ; I was until now quite Tin- 
 conscious of his existence. That he stood high in the esti- 
 mation of his fellow-citizens, was evident from the fact of 
 his having recently been elected mayor ; that he had no sym- 
 pathy with us was made equally clear by his being at the 
 head of those who were eager to do honor to Colonel Leigh. 
 Good Christians these men were considered to be,, and our 
 own private wrongs, about which the world cared nothing, 
 alone enabled us to dispute the position. I saw enough to 
 stagger one called upon to search so narrowly into individ- 
 ual practice' as I was. Except that the name " Infidel" was 
 a bugbear to me, all I knew of Uncle Stephen reflected, high 
 honor on his heart and principles, and I was ashamed to find 
 myself shrinking from him, even more than I did from the 
 so-called Christians, in whose profession I had no trust. — 
 One thing seemed certain — ;the law of God was less regard- 
 ed than from my grand-father's teaching I had supposed it 
 to be ; that other law of this world, of which Uncle Ste- 
 phen had spoken, and from which I could hope little, ruled 
 more universally. Well ! there was a stem battle with life 
 before me, and I had a strong, determined will, and a stout 
 heart. 
 
 In the midst of many dangerous doubts and perplexities 
 I learned much that it was good for me to know. More than 
 ever I loved and reverenced my grand-father ; I was compel- 
 led to admire his patience in tribulation ; there was something 
 sublime about his steadfast faith kept in the midst of fiery 
 trial, and which the mysterious dispensations of this world 
 could not shake. I felt that I_ had been unjust to Aunt 
 Betsy ; imder the rough exterior that had so readily repel- 
 led me I had failed to discern the real goodness of heart, 
 the straightforward sense 'of duty and right that had enabled 
 her to break through the habits of years, and devote herself 
 to uncongenial labors, and brave all the sorrow and disgrace 
 that had fallen upon her brother's home. . I cleaved to these 
 two with my whole heart ; I longed in my turn to labor for 
 
so MAnGABET ; OR, ■ 
 
 t^_ein, to prove that the gratitude I felt was sometbiDg mpre 
 than the passing impulse to which I could give no words. 
 
 It was perhaps, well for nie that I did not at once see all 
 ^e di.^race of lay position, aS the disadvantage that iti 
 would prove to me in the world. 1 bad to learn more of its 
 cusloBw before I could understand that every peuAlty of that 
 position Hiust fall upon myself ; that gnihles* as I supposed 
 myself to be, I must stand in the place of the gtrilty, so far 
 33 ita. judgments were concerned. I felt the disgrace with- 
 ont allowing it to crush irae, it was- a cloud that I might 
 break tferoBgh, a load that I might east off. I had youth 
 a»d health, and, probably, a long life before me; in other 
 places, and amidst other people, 1 should be judged by my 
 own actions, and I had a semi-savage sort of pride in the 
 thought of thus struggling and triumphing in roy loneliness. 
 
 I was soon called upon to put my good resolution into 
 practice. My unexpected apjxsarance before my father had 
 given great offence to the Dean : it was consideired by all to 
 liave been a concerted plan betwixt me and my grand-father ; 
 it showed an inclination to prefer claims* that were not to 
 be thought about, and threatened a series of annoyances 
 that were not to be borne. It is the pecuriai privilege of 
 the great people of this world, that they have little need to 
 interfere personally with dirty work. There are plenty to 
 do it for them in an underhand way, or to battle for theni 
 openly ; and on this occaaon, white the Dean and Colonel 
 find Lady Iiejgh stood aloof in dignified silen'ce, the whole 
 staff of Trader-churchmen, with Archdeacon Dixon at their 
 Jiesd, undertook the task of reproof. I was sitting at my 
 niusic-lesson, a few days after that important Sunday, when 
 the latter, gentleman, without knocking, walked through the 
 enter room into mine. He was a stout, portly roan, with a 
 particular florid complexion, a bustling importance of man- 
 ner, and having altogether the self satisfied look that char- 
 acterises those who oocmpy a good- place in the world, and 
 know how to make the most of it. I had never been ex- 
 posed to vulgarity or impertinence'; my grand-father, being 
 a dhristi^n, had the bearing of a perfect gentleman ; and 
 Uncle St'ephen bad a native dignity of manner, never un- 
 coiirteoHs when most severe, that he 'rai'ely put off in my 
 
PEMXTDICE AT HSME. 61 
 
 presence. At the first glance I saw that I must expect rude 
 treatment at the hands of this Archdeacon, who had burst 
 upon me so abruptly, and who asked, in a blustering tone 
 first, why I was idling my time there ; and next, where my 
 gtand-father was. 
 
 I had risen up at his entrance, and I told him that my 
 grand-father was not in. 
 
 "Whore is your aunt?" 
 
 My aunt had heard us speaking, and appeared to answer 
 for herself. I was going away, when the Archdeacon called 
 me back.: 
 
 " Stop here, Girl ; I want to talk to you. Why don't 
 you," he continued, " set that great wench to the wash-tub, 
 instead of allowing her to waste her time in this way ?— - 
 What do you think you are going to make of her ?" 
 
 " Archdeacon Dixon," said my aunt, bristling up, as she 
 very well could, " this is the first time that any one has ta- 
 ken the trouble to make inquiry about that child, and I 
 think the least people can do is to let us take our own course 
 with her. If she satisfy us that is enough." 
 
 " My good woman, you don't know what you are talking 
 about," said the Archdeacon. "If you don't teach her to 
 make herself properly useful, she must trouble somebody. 
 Bless my life, you haven't a fortune to leave her ! Now let 
 me hear what she is fit for : Wouldn't you like a place, eh 1" 
 
 " This was addressed to me. I was about to say that I 
 was in my grand-father's hands and ready to do anything he 
 wished, when my aunt interposed. 
 
 "She has not been brought up for the kind of place you 
 would like to put her in, but she has been taught to know 
 that she must earn her own living, and please God she will 
 •do that. You may go away, Margaret ; for if there's any- 
 thing more to be asked, I can answer myself." 
 
 I was very thankful for this order, and left the room. I 
 heard their voices for some time after in loud altercation, 
 and when my ftunt rejoined me, her face was flushed and her 
 manner excited. She told me to go to my ;lesson again. 
 
 Every fresh contact with the world seemed worse than 
 the last. The visit of the Archdeacon had left a very pain- 
 ful impression upon me. It show«d me the manner in which 
 
82 MARfflAKBT; OR, 
 
 the world takes rather rough liberties with those whose lot 
 is lowly, and placed another minister of God before me in 
 an unfavorable Ijght. I felt that I must yield a little more 
 in Uncle Stephen's favor ; that if all Christians resembled 
 those I had hitherto come in contact with, I should be in- 
 clined to turn to him, and such as him, heart and soul. — 
 I tried to resume my lesson, but could not. My mind- 
 was disturbed, and my thoughts wandered far away into 
 the dark depths of the world, in which I anticipated I 
 "^should have to undergo many changes, until, in my final self, 
 little would remain of the dreaming, wavering creature I 
 was then. Uncle Stephen had spoken of Christianity as a 
 worn-out system ; of its professors as men whose practice 
 turned it into mockery. If this were true, I thought it 
 would be a better world in which men rejected it altogether ; 
 Decause the habit of a daily lie in the many, left little chance 
 forthe sincerity of the few. Then, Christianity was exact- 
 ing, it enjoined patience and forbearance under affliction 
 and wrong ; humility to the down-trodden ; no turning again 
 to the smitten ; ineek endurance and long-suifering to the 
 death. From the little I had as yet seen, I understood how 
 readily any earnest follower of Christ, whose riches were not 
 of this world, might find occasion to put these virtues into 
 practice. What a victim he might become to those who de- 
 spised his belief, while they made use of it for their own 
 ends ! I dwelt upon this idea until it took a shape, and I 
 saw my grand-father in his tribulation, and thought of Un- ■ 
 cle Stephen's words when they conversed together. If pov- 
 erty makes humility imperative, it should not, amongst a 
 Christian people, make nothing of a great wrong; and I 
 could not help seeing that if my grand-father had been 
 rich, and Colonel Leigh poor, and, therefore, insignificant, 
 the world's sympathy would have been with us. I saw all 
 the, mockery of Christian profession in those who sufifered 
 such things to be. My grand-father himself had not acted 
 with, sincerity ; he had allowed me to think too well of the 
 world, to express and cherish in my heart reverence for those 
 whom he knew to be undeserving of it, and I could not con- 
 sider this a small or excusable error, feeling as I did how 
 -much it had tended to shake my faith. Uncle Stephen 
 
PEBJT7DICE AT HOME. 53 
 
 alone had not deceived me. I had found life and men as 
 he painted them — with a rough hand and dark colors, but 
 so generally true that there was no mistaking the likeness. 
 The authoritative dictation and scornful manner of Arch- 
 deacon Dixon had worked a' wonderful change in me in the 
 course of half an hour. I contrasted my grand-father's 
 feebleness with Uncle Stephen's strength, the one bending 
 under a galling yoke, the other boldly ascerting his own 
 free will ; and in a paroxysm of overwrought feeling I ex- 
 tended my arms and uttered the name of Uncle Stephen, 
 in a wild cry for help. 
 
 Deeply absorbed as I was, I had not observed that Uncle 
 Stephen had entered the room from the kitchen. He took 
 my hands in his, and held them fast. ' 
 
 " What is Uncle Stephen to help you in ? What is. the 
 matter?" he asked. "I was just about to scold when you 
 nearly knocked me down with that sudden outbreak. Why, 
 your hands are hot, and your face is all in a glow ; have 
 you been asleep and dreaming ?" 
 
 Aunt Betsy walked forward and answered for me. 
 
 " You should have been here a little while ago," she said. 
 "We have had a visit from Archdeacon Dixon. You know 
 his pompous manner, and how he likes to lord it where he 
 can. Well, he walked straight into this room, and wanted 
 to know why Margaret was allowed to idle her time, and 
 asked what she was fit for, and if she would Uke a place." 
 
 " Oh, that's it, is it ?" said Uncle Stephen, drawing a chair 
 forward, seating himself, and still keeping hold of my hand. 
 
 " Yes, that's it," said Aunt Betsy ; " that's what must 
 always be where people won't or can't stand up for them- 
 selves. You know, Stephen Leath, that before I came here, 
 I had a pride in my independence, and maintained it ; no 
 one dared say to me what Archdeacon Dixon did to-day." 
 
 " I know ; I always said you were a brave woman, Betsy 
 — one of the right sort — one that would neither take wrong 
 nor do it. As to this child, if he has anything to say about 
 her, let him come to me. I suppose his impertinence has 
 put her in this fever. I'll let him know it mustn't happen 
 again ; your Uncle Stephen can protect you so far, Margaret. 
 Confound the people ! What a nest of hornets this Dean 
 
64, MittOARer; ob, 
 
 atld Chapter affair ist It would be pleasant getting t6 
 heaven without them. There, it isn't worth crying about, 
 Margaret ; and people who sit down to weep over their 
 troubles are fit for nothing." 
 
 I Sobbed convulsively, but only for a moment. I dashed 
 the tears from toy eyes, and lifted my head. " You see," I 
 said, "they can labor to put down and degrade me — these 
 people who will do nothing else ! They are right in supposing 
 I atti old enough to earn my own livelihood. It is time I 
 left this plaeCj where I can only be a burden upon my grand' 
 father." 
 
 "That is the right sort of spirit, Margaret," said Unfile 
 Stephen ; " but you must have patience, — your education is 
 scarcely completed. As to the rest, I think I can now let 
 you go into the world with some confidence." 
 
 " I shall go, expecting little mercy at the hands of 
 Christians,"- I said. " I could . pray that I might find all 
 li'ke you. Uncle Stephen." 
 
 " Or like your grand-father," said Aunt Betsy, sharply ; 
 " what fault have you to find with your grand-father ?" 
 
 " There are none like him ; he is too good for this world 
 as it is. Better than I shall ever be; better than I wouM 
 be. I will not lie down to be trampled on by orthodox feet. 
 I will turn heathen sooner, for the followers of Mahomet do 
 exhibit some traits of nobleness." 
 
 "What have you been teaching this child, Stephen Leart;h?" 
 
 " I ! Nay, you may thank your high churchmen for these 
 notions. Margaret is excited, and speaks under the iihpulse 
 of the moment. You should have some sympathy with a 
 spirit so like your own, Betsy ; you would not like to see 
 this child in the hands of those who would like nothing 
 better than to bring her as low as possible." 
 
 " Would'nt they like it ?" said Aunt Betsy, excited. "You 
 know that in spite of Thomas, I have always said I hope to 
 see the day when we should be revenged." 
 
 "The best revenge will be keeping out of their way, and 
 rising in spite of them,", said Unule Stephen, placing his 
 hand on my head in the caressing manner that had in the 
 last few days become usual with him, " I predict a bright 
 career for Margatet. In a few years most of these pec^ple 
 
PaEjn5ICB AT HOME, S& 
 
 will be dead, and ske will not ttiiak theiu worth remembering, 
 1 C0IH6 ta tell you that I am going to London m a few days, 
 and I shaiJ, perliaps, be absent a fortnight. You, Margaret, 
 be diligeat whilst I am away. Tell Thomas I shall want to 
 see him in the eyening." 
 
 He left us, and Aunt Betsy called me into the kitchen. 
 
 " You are gettiag iato high favor with Unole Stephen, I 
 i^ink," ehe Baid. " You may learn more from him titan is 
 good foa- yoa to know. What has he been saying to you 
 agaiaast Christianity ?" 
 
 " Nothing-, he onJy speaks against iJiose who profess it to 
 little purpose, and he eaa say no worse of tliem than I find." 
 
 " Ail Christians are not alike.'' 
 
 " Ar« they E<rt ail alike in this pla<3e where aiy graad- 
 father^s loag life <^ piety aiid fauaible usefiiLness has only 
 gained him one friend, and l^at am m'&d^ beeaiuse he is ' 
 pool' ? where his brother is honored for the one reoommeada- 
 tion of weailii S where such peojde as Cokiael Leigh caM 
 commit aay wic&edaess wiih impnirity 8 If I find no better 
 anaongst l^e tiiousaiads in tiiis eiif, what am I to hope else- 
 wto;ef 
 
 , ^' The peO^e here are bad enough," said Atmt Betsy, "but 
 Ahat is not l^e fault oif Christiaoity. It is beeause tliey have 
 aone of it m them." 
 
 " Has die Dean none, nor Ai'chdeaooa Dixon, norLady 
 Leigh, who goes every day to prayers, nor David Marplea, 
 who yoa say has givea a Jiew orgaa to St. Mary's aad gives 
 hundreds to the missionaries I After all, true reli^onoonsists 
 in sueh praotiee as Uaele Stephen's. You say he was a good 
 eon, a good brother, aad — I myself feel that he has been a 
 good friend." 
 
 " You are ieaming to talk too tast^ said Aunt Betsy, in 
 Ler harshest manner. "Unele Stephen is one in a million 
 for his way of thinking. If all these people were like him, 
 without religion altogether, we shouldn't be able to live 
 sunongst tJiem, Who amongst them would eaxe what they 
 did, if like Stephen Leath, they eKpected to lie down at last 
 a»d' go to dust like a dog I" ^ 
 
 . Her words fairly made me start, I bad never taken this 
 view of the case; on the contrary, I had been pleasing 
 
68 Margaret; or, 
 
 myself with the thought of future punishment for these 
 people, and reward for Uncle Stephen. From this too 
 absorbing present my thoughts wandered back to the noble 
 men and women of whom I had read, whose lives, sometimes 
 through storm and darkness, bore testimony to. the truths of 
 God, and whose deaths glorified Him. I considered my own 
 weakness, and felt the extent of my folly, and that night I 
 prayed , fervently for grace to keep me in the right way. 
 Several days passed quietly. Uncle Stephen, as I continued 
 to call him, had gone to London, and the more than usually 
 Berious manner of my grand-father, and his frequent allusions 
 to the [great danger and sin of doubt and unbelief in matters 
 pertaining to God, led me to suppose that Aunt Betsy had 
 alarmed him by repeating the sentiments I had expressed. 
 In his own quiet way he selected for our reading the noblest 
 examples: of Christian life, and I felt ashamed that it was 
 deeined necessary to go over this ground once more, for the 
 express purpose of convincing me that the believers in Christ 
 were capable of acting worthily. I felt this without re- 
 covering from the shock I had received. The persons I was 
 called upon to admire had been long dead, and I had yet to 
 find, their likeness amongst the' living. I could only be 
 content to hope on, and search further, without giving up 
 my opinion of those who had excited my disgust. " It must 
 needs be that offences come, but woe to that man by whom 
 the offence cometh." 
 
 Uncle Stephen had been absent a week when I was one 
 day surprised by the entrance of a strange man into the 
 house. He accompanied my grand-father into every room, 
 and I soon found that he was taking an inventory of the 
 furniture. This puzzled without alarming me. I wondered 
 if my gratid-father had any thought of leaving the place, but 
 that seemed too good news to be true. I was sewing in my 
 own room, and I took my work into the kitchen in the hope 
 that Aunt Betsy would say something, but she was unusually 
 busy, and took no notice of 'me. The inner door was open, 
 and I saw the man pause beside the piano. 
 
 " This," said ■ my grand-father, " belongs to Mr. Leath," 
 and they passed on. During the time they were in the 
 
PEBJtTDICB AT HOME. Si 
 
 kitchen, my grand-fajher glanced wistfljlly at Aunt Betsy as 
 the man was inspecting a dresser. 
 
 " This," he said, " belongs to my sister. I scarcely feel 
 that I am doing right by letting all these things go together, 
 Betsy."' 
 
 ' " Say no more about it," said my aunt. " I have cast my 
 lot -with you and the child ; if you go, I will not be left 
 behind." 
 
 Joyful news ! We were, then, going somewhere ; perhaps 
 to join Uncle Stephen in London. 
 
 The knowledge that at all events we should quit that place 
 satisfied me, and I sat in a silent trance of happiness, well 
 content to wait patiently until I might learn more. It was 
 not until we were all seated after tea, in what may be called 
 my grand-father's study, that either he or my aunt showed 
 any intention to enlighten me, and I was determined to ask 
 no questions until one of them had spoken. It was a rough 
 winter night ; hail mixed with rain rattled against the upper 
 windows, and the shutters below shook in the strong blast. 
 
 "Draw your chair nearer the fire, Margaret," said my 
 grand-father ; "we must have a long talk together to-night. 
 I wish you to believe that I have always done my best for 
 you ; that, more than anything else, I have your interest at 
 heart in what I am about to do. You have sometimes 
 thought that I was not quite sincere with you, that I kept 
 you too much and too long in the dark : — that was respecting 
 the past. It concerns you to understand clearly what are 
 your prospects in the future. I will conceal nothing from 
 you, not even what may give you pain. I have lost the 
 means of maintaining you here, Margaret ; I have been dis- 
 missed from the cathedral." 
 
 My heart sanTs at once. It was necessity, then, not choice, 
 that was driving him away ; and — miserable me — was not I 
 the cause of this injustice to one who had grown old in the 
 service of the church ? 
 
 "What makes you turn so white, child?" said Aunt Betsy. 
 "You must not fear to look the future in the face, or to 
 work." 
 
 " I fear neither," I said ; " but it is I that' have brought 
 3 
 
S3 MARflAKftf; Oft, 
 
 this elril ujjon my grand-fether in his old age. I wish. I had 
 never been bom !" 
 
 " You are wrotig altogether, Margaret," said Iny grand- 
 father, gently. "Listen to me. You have strong feelings 
 and you yield to them too readily : this habit will lead you 
 into all iinds of error. The fault lies altogether with those . 
 who originally refused to recognise their own sin, and who 
 were reckless about overwhelming others with it. I was 
 prepared for what has happened, years ago. It is true, 
 Margaret, that the Dean has looked upon me with an un- 
 favorable eye ever since your birth, atid your sudden appear- 
 ance before your father — as he believes with my consent — 
 tried his endurance too far. I do not regret that circum- 
 stance now ; I do not murmur against any one. There are 
 better modes of remedying evil. In the first place, we would 
 not — any of us three — ^change places with these people. 
 That is a wonderful advantage. We all have good health, 
 and even I have some strength left : I am strong in the hope 
 of God's help. I am not compelled to go away in a hurry, 
 but I think it best to leave this place at once, and go where 
 we shall be better able to help one another. We shall go' 
 to London. I have a little money, and I shall obtain more 
 by the sale of the furniture, which Jackson will take at a 
 Valuation. When we have settled down, we shall have time 
 to look about us." 
 
 I began to be more hbpeful. In London I should obtain 
 employment, and the thought of being enabled to help niy 
 grand-father reconciled me to anything. 
 
 " And we shall see Uncle Stephen in London," I said. 
 
 "I was coming to Uncle Stepheti," said my grand-father. 
 " He has been a kind friend to you and me, atid we both 
 owe him gratitude and respect ; but there are many reasons 
 that for the present forbid us holding any communication 
 with him. I have no need tb fear speaking openly of his 
 principles, lest they should throw Christianity into the shade ; 
 you have found him merciful where others with better light 
 have been unmerciful ; but he would prove the worst enemy 
 you ever had, if he instilled into you notions tha,t would lead 
 your heart from God; and peril thie loss of your immortal 
 soul. I do not distrust Stephta Leath ; it is my very faith 
 
PB.B«ft)ICE AT SOME. fi^ 
 
 m bis straigtitforward dealing that makes me resolve to keep 
 yoa otit of his reieh. When he first undertook ttte task of 
 educating yon, he promised not to interfere with youj: 
 religious instruction, and he kept his word, as I knew he 
 «it>uld. The other day he apprised me that as you had 
 "^arrived at an age to judge for yourself, and especially as yott 
 seemed to have conceived a disgust for Christian dealin*, he 
 should no longer keep silent, but give you a chance oi dis- 
 cerning betwixt the true and the lalse according to his own 
 views. I was again bound to believe that he meant what hei 
 Said, and my resolve is that, he shall have no opportunity 
 of corrupting you, for corruption it is, Margaret, of the worst 
 kind, when men attempt to prove God a I'iar, and to put in 
 place of His truth their own blind and merely instinctive 
 notions of what is right I have labored to bring you up in 
 the fear of the Lord, and to see you fall away from it would 
 break my heart. Only a little longer I may be with you ; 
 Jet me depart with the hope that we shall meet again." 
 
 I threw my arras round my grand-father's neck and wept. 
 This earnestness cut me to the heart, and I could not bear 
 that he should doubt me. 
 
 " Have I not been -altogether taught by you ?" I said ; 
 " have I not seen how God Can be all-suflScient to them that 
 have nothing to support them in tl«s world ? Do not fear me !" 
 
 " God bless you, child !" he said ; " all my prayer is, that" 
 you may not be tempted out of the way." 
 
 "But we need not be unkind to Uncle Stephen," I said, 
 *' In London, if he remains here, I shall see nothing of hirn ; 
 we may correspond with him ?" 
 
 " There are reasons why we should not do even that,^ said 
 fifty grand^athel". " Sit still and hear me. For many years 
 before you were born, Stephen was in a flourishing way of 
 business. He had a taste for travel, and was fteq^fently 
 absent on the Continent, leaving everythittg at home in the' 
 hands of his foreman. Whether he suffered in this way or 
 not I do not know, but he did in another. His sister was 
 married to an attorney, who frequently borrowed large sums 
 from him, and for whom he becanie bound, just before his 
 death, on the, eve otbattkniptcy. He lost t-he>a*aftds ofpo\j^ds 
 at that til^e; (ftid #^' coaipi^&d t* give uj^KuattesSln MJir i6i 
 
60 MAaoAiiET; or, 
 
 avoid being a bankrupt himself. All this was not generally 
 known, apd people supposed he had retired rich. His sister 
 was left with a young son, and Stephen had to provide for both 
 of them. This young man, George Ratolifle, has been brought 
 up at the bar : he has been about twelve months in practice, 
 and it is on his aflfairs that Stephen is gone to London. — 
 Apart from the sum that he has sunk for his nephew and his 
 sister, I know that he has barely enough to exist upon. If he 
 comes to understand our troubles, he will insist upon helping 
 us, and still further impoverishing himself. We owe him 
 enough already : he has toiled and suffered enough, too, on our 
 account. We must be independent : we will write and tell 
 him this, and that if we prosper he shall hear of our pros- 
 perity. It is right that we should struggle for ourselves." 
 
 I could say nothing against this : I already owed enough 
 to Uncle Stephen, and I pleased myself with the thought of 
 sending him S,ccounts of my prosperity as his best reward. 
 Both my grand-father and myself wrote to him that night, 
 letters which were to be left behind us, and then I was told 
 that we should depart from in two days. 
 
 We employed the intervening time in packing up, taking 
 amongst our ordinary luggage such relics of home as a 
 portion of my grand-father's books and mine, and a few 
 things that Aunt Betsy prized. This extraordinary move- 
 ment, and the bustle df it, and the prospect of seeing London, 
 and doing something for myself, so exhilarated my spirits 
 that I seemed quite another creature. From the back 
 windows of the house we had a view of the stately mansion 
 of David Marples, embosomed in trees ; and as I loo;ked at it 
 from the kitchen, I thought of him and Colonel Leigh, and 
 gloried in the consciousness of owing them nothing: and 
 from the depths of a proud, sanguine spirit came an assurance 
 that one day I should be able to lift my head above theirs, 
 even in this world. With the flush of anticipated triumph 
 upon my cheek, I passed into the inner room. The complete 
 abstraction of my thoughts unfitted me at the moment for 
 any outward application, and as I stood idly, I heard Aunt 
 Betsy moving in the sitting-room. 
 
 "The poor old man!" she murmured : "and he so fond 
 of his books and quiet — this is enough to kill him 1" 
 
PRBJUDICB AT HOME. 61 
 
 I needed bringing down from my proud thoughts of sel£ 
 I walked slowly up to my bed-room and knelt in prayer, and 
 wept and tried to humble myself. This woman, of whom I 
 had thought hardly through so many years, was nobler than 
 I : in the midst of her own tribulation she could think of 
 the feeble old man, driven from the home that time had 
 endeared to him, compelled to give up the habits of a long 
 life ; whilst I, who had brought sorrow upon both, was 
 absorbed in selfish speculations. Although I seemed in- 
 capable of keeping myself in the right way, I was ready 
 enough to follow it when it was pointed out to" me ; and 
 sobered and saddened, I returned to my employment, and 
 found my spirit strengthened by thinking more earnestly for 
 others and less extravagantly for myself. 
 
 Though it must have been known to many that my grand- 
 father had received his dismissal from the cathedral, few were 
 aware of his intention to leave the city. Several poor people 
 called, with tears in their eyes, to thank him for good services 
 which they had the gratitude to remember ; and one old 
 verger bewailed himself so bitterly, and exclaimed so vehe- 
 mently against the injustice that had been exercised, that all 
 my grand-father's efforts to quiet him were in vain. Beyond 
 this we had no leave-taking ; we were quitting one desert 
 place for another, and the confidence ^ith which we went 
 forth had yet to be tried. 
 
 It was quite dark when we quitted the house for the last 
 time to go by the early coach. Even I experienced a pang 
 of regret when I heard Jackson, the man who had charge 
 of the furniture, lock the door behind us. Amidst my eager 
 hopes I had not lost ray fear of the world, and I felt it just 
 possible that Imight be taught to think more kindly of the 
 home that had given peaceful shelter to my childhood. I 
 clung closely to my grand-father's arm. He exhibited no 
 emotion ; and as to Aunt Betsy, when we arrived at the inn- 
 yard, she bustled about in her usual manner amongst the 
 boxes. The gas-Ught showed us three inside passengers, and 
 there were two outside besides ourselves. When the coach at 
 length started into the outer darkness, we could only guess 
 from the sound of the wheels when'it had quitted the paved 
 streets of the city. 
 
49 u^ndARfiT ; ob, 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 The diiy broke in a tMck mist, that gradually cleared 
 away, .and before eleven o'clock the sun shone out bril- 
 liantly. ' The air was piercingly cold and frosty, chilling 
 even my young blood, though I was well wrapped up. I 
 was too much excited, however, to attend to this minor 
 discomfort. Though I only saw in greater variety what I 
 had seen before^houses and rivers, trees and ields, and very 
 common-place looking human beings — I was disposed to be 
 pleased with every thing. The sense of freedom commu- 
 nicated by this rapid whirling through what seemed to me 
 intermiiiable space, suited me admirably, and losing every 
 regretful thought fqp what I had left behind me, wondering 
 how I had so well borne the dullness and insipidity of my- 
 past life, I commenced castle-building on a larger scale, and 
 annihilated all difficulties at wiU. • 
 
 This mood continued till the coach stopped before a lone- 
 ly farm-house, at which a parcel had to be delivered. I ob- 
 served a miserable-clad liish'woman in the road, with a 
 child at her back, and three other's following her, half naked 
 and shivering. I thought she was going to beg, and wished 
 that my gradd-father would give her something, but she ap- 
 proached a pump at which a man was filling a bucket, and 
 asked leave to get water for a kettle she held in her hand. 
 The man took no notice of her, but pumped on until he had 
 filled two buckets, and then to my consternation, he delibe- 
 rately threw the contents of one of them over the woman 
 and children, completely deluging them. Mixed with the 
 cries of the children was a loud, hoarse kVigh^ proceeding 
 
PRuSftrSiDi! AT aoas, dS 
 
 from one oroiir fellow-passeng'eiS, and in wliicli tie coach- 
 man, who now came up, joined. 
 
 "Darn them Irish vermin!" exclaimed the coachman, 
 " that just serves 'em right." 
 
 My grand-father threw some mdney to the shivering wo- 
 man, and the coach passed on. The man whose mirth had 
 first been excited by this scene, and who sat on the box, had 
 been rebuked by him, and he now turned to reply. 
 
 " If it wasn't for such as you," he said, " we should soon 
 be rid of these vagabonds. The popish devils ! why don't 
 they keep in their own country ? If I had my will, I'd 
 hang them up as fast as they come." 
 
 Here the subject dropped. Our other fellow passenger, 
 who seemed from his dress to be a Clergyman, was seated by 
 himself at the back of the coach. He was a middle aged 
 man, stout, with a sallow, unwholesome complexion, and he 
 had a particularly gloomy, abstracted look. I had turned 
 tawards him in the hope that he would interfere^ but he was 
 looking straight forward with the same sullen and apathetic, 
 expression of countenance ; so that it was scarcely possible 
 tp suppose that he was aware of what was passing. Such 
 scenes as I have described may not be common ; but the 
 whole affair, and the coarse mirth and brutality, and bitter 
 annimosity, and utter indifference which it served to exhibit, 
 struck a chill to my heart. I was dragged down from the 
 heights into which I had been soaring, and then a doubt fell 
 upon me whether I had the strength of mind and purpose 
 necessary to battle with the difficulties that possibly lay in 
 my own path. 
 
 Thus veei'ing about to all points of the mental compass, I 
 fpund myself in London. I was not much impressed by any 
 thing I saw, which was only a repetition of what I had seen 
 before. There were the same houses and streets , on a more 
 extended scale ; the same human beings in greater numbers. 
 As far as we went, I saw nothing so grand as our own cathe- 
 dral. The coach stopped to set down the clergyman, and 
 my grand-father observing that we might as well stop there^ 
 as anywhere else, descended also. Our boxes were speedily' 
 dragged from the roof, and we stood blocking up the paVe- 
 nlent in the midst of the great crowd. I had fixed my eyes 
 
64, MAkgaret; ob, 
 
 upon the clergyman, who had undergone a metamorphosis 
 that astonished me. • His brisk movements and the meriy 
 twinkle of his black eyes which gave altogether a different 
 expression to his countenance, made me almost doubt his, 
 identity. He was met by an odd-looking individual, who 
 might have been a man or a boy — ^it was impossible to say 
 which — dressed in ragged trousers, a coat that almost reach- 
 ed to his feet, and without a hat. His face, however, was 
 wrinkled, and had a tough, leathery look, as if the skin was 
 made of old parchment, and his small mean, cunning eyes, 
 in a chance glance at myself, seemed to look me through. 
 The clergyman tossed his sole luggage, a carpet-bag, at this 
 personage, with the exclamation — 
 
 " Here, Jem, take that, and look sharp." 
 
 Jem obeyed both orders. I was about to withdraw my 
 lingering gaze from these two, when both turned round and 
 looked back at us, and the clergyman approached, and spoke 
 to my grand-father. 
 
 " If you want any one to carry your luggage," he said, 
 "here, is a poor fellow who will be glad of the job. He 
 has a truck which he could Vnug in a few minutes." 
 
 " The truth is," said my grand-father, " I don't know 
 where to go ; — ^to some inn, I suppose, in the first place : — 
 perhaps you, sir, could recommend me to one." 
 
 " Do you make any stay here ? Do you want a private 
 lodging ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Then,". he continued, glancing first at Aunt Betsy, then 
 at me, then again at my grand-father, " perhaps you could 
 be accommodated at the house where I live, — that is, if you 
 are not particular." 
 
 " Any humble place that is decent will suit us," said my 
 grand-father. I only fear that the abode you mention may 
 be beyond my means." 
 
 " Ah, I see," said the clergyman, smiling and touching 
 the sleeve of his coat, " all is not gold that glitters. I am 
 compelled to lodge humbly myself; but mine is quite a re- 
 Bpectable concern; religious landlady, and all that; you 
 won't find a cheaper place at all decent. 
 
 "Then we thank you for your courtesy, sir," said my 
 
PBEJtJDIOB AT HOMB. 65 
 
 grand-father ; " and if you will lead the way we will fol- 
 low." 
 
 " Let me see," said our new friend, taking a survey of the 
 boxes. " Here, Jem, throw that carpet-bag here, and fetch 
 the truck. " 
 
 Jem obeyed and disappeared. 
 
 " Ever here before ?" asked the clergyman. 
 
 " Only once," said my grand-father. " I am a stranger 
 and a sojourner, for how long the Lord knows." 
 
 " We are all strangers and sojourners, and places that 
 bear no resemblance to Egypt, or the wilderness, or Canaan, 
 for there the multitudes were fed," said the clergyman. — 
 "This is the modern Babel, of which Scripture does not 
 give us due notice, in which all men speak a different lan- 
 guage, only too^^ell understood to mean the same thing — 
 every one for himself. We are an odd iiock to belong to 
 one shepherd." 
 
 He stood against the wall with his arms fWded, and in a 
 shorter time than we expected, Jem made his appearance 
 with the truck. Putting my grand-father aside, the clergy- 
 man helped Jem to place the boxes, and crowned them with 
 his carpet-bag. He then politely ofFeted his arm to Aunt 
 Betsy, who accepted it with a grim, sidelong glance at him, 
 and placing my grand-father and me foremost, he followed 
 in this order. 
 
 We accompanied Jem and the truck through many devi- 
 ous windings and turnings, until he stopped at the door of a 
 three-storied house, in a narrow, third-rate street, where the 
 children were playing in the gutters and idle women were 
 standing at the doors and leaning out of the windows. The 
 clergyman took us into the house and introduced us to the 
 landlady, who said she had two furnished rooms to let, which 
 we might have on the condition of always paying a week's 
 rent beforehand. We then went to look at the rooms, and 
 the bargain was concluded, and our boxes taken up stairs. 
 
 Viewed by the light of a small candle, for it was four 
 o'clock in the afternoon and growing dark, our new abode 
 looked dismal enough. The furniture was scanty and mean, 
 the walls dingy, and the fireless grates added to the generaj 
 appearance of discomfort. Our landlady, too, was suffi 
 3* 
 
60 HAftoAREt; OS, 
 
 cteiitly yepeffing. The one recomme'tidatioii of being reli- 
 gious scarcely atoned for the ungracious, distant manner, as 
 if she was conferring an unwilling favor by admitting us, — 
 for the particularly sour look, aided by a pair of suspicious 
 eyes, and a mouth turned down most portentiously at the 
 corners. Whilst she left us to ourselves, our fellow-lodger 
 brought up from his apartment on the second .floor a skut^ 
 tle-ftill of coals and some wood, and, resisting all Aunt Bet- 
 sy's importunities, commenced lighting the fire. 
 
 ■ " You are tired, my good lady," he said, " and being a 
 bachelor I am used to this Sort of woA. Jem goes all my 
 errands, and if you want anything you may trust him." 
 
 Upon this hint, Jem was despatched for such necessaries 
 as were required to make tea. He also fetched us coals and 
 w'ood, which were deposited in a cupboar^in one of the 
 rooms. The Reverend Mr. Chaundy — as we understood our 
 fellow-lodger to be from a card which he gave us — displayed j 
 a' general knowledge of the place by directing us where to 
 look for such things as were immediately wanted; and, de- 
 clining my grand-father's invitation to take tea with us, he 
 promised to look in for an hour in the evening if we were 
 not too tired to receive him. Aunt Betsy, good methodical 
 house-wife as she was, -was sadly put about. She did not 
 mind all the cups arid saucers being odd ones, and we ex- 
 tracted a little fun out of the fact of the knives not being 
 made to cut, but a teapot with a broken spbu* annoyed her 
 so much that she was with difficulty restrained from opening 
 a, large box to get at her own. Altogether, however, we 
 bore up pretty well, considering that the oha,ng6 we had 
 undergone was worse than that from civilized to downright 
 savage life ; for every deterioration in the former is accom- 
 panied by an oppressive restraint, while the latter gives the 
 perfect freedom that is more than an equivalent for difficulty. 
 The first thing that struck me in our new abode was the. 
 general paucity of real work. The clearing up of our two 
 rooms seemed merely child's play, so that I could not help 
 wondering what was to become of Aunt Betsy unless she 
 ■obtained some employment elsewhere. The buoyant hope 
 of yOuth had again surmounted every difficulty with, regard 
 to myself. 
 
PEBftrtircE. AT HoiiE. 67 
 
 ■ Mr. Chaundy had made a favorable iilipTession upon both 
 Bay relativea ; and, though his place of abode and his habits 
 Were alike odd for a minister of the Church, I do not think 
 that either of them for- a moment suspected that he was 
 other than what he professed himself to be. My grand- 
 father called a general council to consider the propriety and 
 expediency of acquainting him with our object in coming to 
 London, and asking his advice as to the manner of proceed- 
 ing. Amongst the changes that had taken place, not the 
 least gratifying to myself was that of being allowed to under- 
 stand exactly what our position and plans were, and to have 
 a voice in our future arrangements. For himself, my grand- 
 father wished to procure employment as a writer for some 
 attorney or law stationer, and for me either a situation as 
 governess or an engagement as day teacher. He bad in- 
 tended to advertise ; but, as that Was an expensive process, 
 it seemed as well to make some inquiries before he ventured 
 upon it. Therefore, when Jem returned from an errand, my 
 grand-father desired him to inform Mr. Chaundy that he 
 should be happy to see him ; and that gentleman shortly 
 made his appearance in a very shabby dressing-gown, having 
 lost all trace of his profession with his dress. Before my 
 grand-father had opened the subject, he turned to me and 
 said, smiling : — 
 
 " I fancy I gained nothing in your good graces this morn- 
 ing when you so eloquently, though mutely, appealed to me 
 on behalf of the poor Irish woman and her children. You 
 could not understand from my blank look that I had taken 
 especial note of the astonishment, and disgust, and pity, ex- 
 pressed in your own, and which was so natural in one new 
 to the ways of the world. Circumstances compel one to be 
 self-contained as an oyster. I had no money to give, and 
 battling with the prejudices of those men. Would have been 
 idler than fighting the winds. However, it was my sym- 
 pathy with what you all seemed to feel that induced me to 
 turn back, and accost you in. the street." 
 
 After some further conversation on this subject, my grand- 
 father spoke of his own affairs. Mr. Chaundy recommended 
 that, instead of advertising, he should make personal appli- 
 cation for himself, and try the register-offices for me. 
 
68 mabqabet; or, 
 
 " It may surprise you," lie continued, " to inow that there 
 is in London a register-office for clergymen, at which I have 
 now danced attendance for many years. What you saw 
 this morning, what you may see any day in London, may 
 lead you to suppose that no clergyman need be idle, and that 
 is the fact. But monopoly on the one hand, and starvation 
 on the other, makes our church system work badly. You 
 see how I am lodged here, and the truth is, obtaining employ- 
 ment only makes matters worse. I was compelled to abscond 
 from two curacies, and the one I have just given up was more 
 than ever ruinous. I had eighty pounds a-year, upon which 
 there were many claims, and a large vicarage-house on my 
 hands. The incumbent, who has three or four livings, has 
 a stall in your •athedral. Perhaps you know him — Arch- 
 deacon Dixon." 
 
 My grand-father acknowledged his acquaintance with this 
 personage, and Mr. Chaundy went on : 
 
 " Very well. I unavoidably got into debt at the vicarage, 
 and the Archdeacon himself preferred a claim against me 
 which I could not meet. I determined to have an interview 
 with him, and lay before him a plain statement of the case. 
 You are possibly aware that he can bluster a good deal, and 
 he contrived to throw all the blame upon me, by saying I 
 had no right to accept the situation, knowing that I could 
 not make it answer. The fact is, no curate can get on, or 
 even exist, who has not property of his own. Our church 
 management is a venal affair altogether, sir. Good God ! it 
 is terrible to pay so much for a mere helpless knowledge of 
 all this selfishness and mismanagement, and the privilege of 
 suffering under it without hope .of change." 
 
 Mr. Chaundy, whose chief solace appeared to be smoking, 
 having ascertained that, though my grand-father could not 
 join him, none of us had any objection to the habit, took out 
 of his pocket a short pipe, and puffing away at a great rate 
 entered further into the details of his personal experience. 
 This was continued night after night, and I compared all he 
 said with what I had heard from Uncle Stephen. It was "no 
 proof of Christianity not being a worn-out system that a few 
 privileged and grasping churchmen contrived to make a good 
 thing of it for themselves. Mr. Chaundy went further than 
 
PREJUDIOB AT HOMK. 69 
 
 this, expatiating on the different modes of preaching to dif- 
 ferent congregations (always with a large allowance to rich 
 and respectable people,) in a manner that took great hold 
 of me. My high opinion of Uncle Stephen's integrity was 
 strengthened by what I heard, which proved that he had at 
 least good reason for speaking and thinking as he did ; and 
 my proud determination not to be crushed down by the 
 mock humility of others went largely towards shaking the 
 faith that had been wavering ever since my first contact with 
 the world. It did not mend the matter that Mr. Chaundy 
 admitted ChristSanity to be a glorious institution ; that its 
 doctrines produced a gracious influence on those who lived 
 up to them ; the fact that not one in a thousand did ; that 
 tho law of this world governed the multitude ; that Church- 
 men, even more than others, scrambled after its rewards, told 
 fearfully against its universality, that one proof of a divine 
 origin to which I had looked. I examined the evidence for 
 and against in a cool, dispassionate manner, considering how 
 much I had anticipated that I had iiot found, and how keen 
 was my conviction that upon the. decision I came to, depended 
 my future success or failure in life. 
 
 I have learned since then that few girls of my age ever 
 enter life with such absorbing thoughts of their chief interest 
 in it. I had been peculiarly reared, in a solitude to which 
 no evil ever came ; I had been well grounded in the doctrine 
 of Christ, and taught to believe that the oppression of which 
 I read in books was an impossibility in our day ; and my 
 peculiar situation, with its consequent revelations, had pro- 
 duced a terrible revulsion of feeling when I first came in 
 contact with the world, as suddenly as if I had dropped f];om 
 the moon. I was too rudely awakened from my dream of 
 universal brother-hood ; I was quickly disgusted by an in- 
 sincerity that was generally understood and allowed ; and 
 there was something in the temper of my mind that made 
 me quite as ready to stand on the defensive as I had been 
 willing to respond to the cordiality and affectionate interest 
 and goodwill which I had so needlessly been prepared to 
 meet. 
 
 My grand-father lost no time ; but on the following day 
 accompanied me to a registsr-offics which was pointed out 
 
VO MAB«AKEr; OB, 
 
 to us by Jem. My name and qualifications, and the sort of 
 situation I wished to obt.ain, were written down, and then, 
 after glancing carelessly at me, and referring to a list, the 
 oflBoe-keeper observed that such a place as I wanted was then 
 vacant in Winipole Street. It was as teacher to five young 
 children. The lady, he said, was rather particular ; having 
 recently had three governesses upon trial, none of whom had 
 suited ; I might, however, be more fortunate. We thought 
 so, too, and as personal application was to be made, between 
 the hours of ten and twelve in the morning, we determined 
 to proceed to Wimpole Street on the following day. After 
 taking me home, my grand-father proceeded to the house of 
 a law stationer, to whom he had a note of introduction from 
 Mr. Chaundy ; and Aunt Betsy declared her determination 
 to apply for needlework, not being able, as I suspected, to 
 find work for the employment of her time. 
 
 Never were people more resolutely bent upon laboring for 
 daily bread, and it seemed impossible to fail in this object. 
 I compassionated the Rev. Mr. Chaundy, of whose dingy 
 apartment I that day obtained a passing glimpse, and 
 wondered how he, with all the sensibility of an educated 
 man, and all the refined testes of a learned one, could so well 
 endure the privation and obscurity to which he was con- 
 demned, without hope to cheer him on, or sympathy to 
 lighten the e¥il8 of his lot. In the course of the afternoon 
 he sent me up a book to which he had made allusion the 
 night before,, and which I told him I had not read — " Don 
 Quixote." Jem, who brought it, lingered as if he wished to 
 say somethiBg ; and I, to whom the study of human beings 
 was newer and as yet more interesting than that of boo&, 
 with which I was familiar, felt inclined to humor him. This 
 man who .looked so weather-beaten though not old, whose 
 time seemed to be at the service of any or every body, who 
 could be so respectful in the midst of his familiarity, so that 
 there was nothing vulgar about him, uneducated vagabond 
 as he evidently was, had abeady excited my interest ; and 
 wishful as I was to learn more of real life, I felt that even 
 such a page as he could unfold to me would not be devoid 
 -of instrijetioii. 
 
 "Do you live here 3" I asked. 
 
PRBJCDieE AT HOME. tl 
 
 " Me !" he exclaimed, openiag bis eyes to the widest. 
 "Well," he continued, "that's the right word, too ; I do live 
 here and nowheres else. I don't Uve in the cellar where I 
 eat and sleep ; I don't live in the streets where I work fop 
 them as wouldn't miss me if I dropped down dead this very 
 minute. I live here with Mister Chaundy, and nowheres 
 else." 
 
 " You like Mr. Chaundy ?" 
 
 " I should think I do ! Look here, — there's nobody else 
 cares for me. I serve a many, but none says to me as he 
 does, — ^ Jem, my good fellow, I like to have your honest face 
 about me ; I don't feel quite alone in the world when I see 
 you, Jem.' That's what I call living for him and me. 
 You'd hardly think it now, and him one of the clergy." 
 
 " Are the clergy usually so different 1" 
 
 " Lor' bless you, yes. So grand and mighty — there's no 
 getting at 'em. He's the first clergyman as ever spoke to 
 me — ^that's what makes me think the more of it. ' Jem,' he 
 says to me, ' when people are prosperous they care for 
 nothing but theirselves.' Now when I pray I ask the Lord 
 to keep him as he is." 
 
 " Nay, that, is selfish. You would surely hke to see him 
 rise in the world as he himself wishes to do. Besides, being 
 so kind as you say he is, what a benefit his more extended 
 usefulness would be to others." 
 
 " You don't understand how it is," said Jem, earnestly. 
 ' Prosperity spoils everybody ; it would spoil him. If he 
 was made a bishop on to-morrow do you think he would 
 know me ? I should think not ! That's where it is ; I can't 
 afford to lose him no way ; — you see I've nobody but him to 
 look to." 
 
 " Have you no wife or children ?" asked Aunt Betsy. 
 
 " No : what should such as me do with 'em ? I was 
 nothing but a poor foundling that nobody owned. I'd just 
 sense enough to keep my disgrace and poverty to myself." 
 
 His words pierced my spirit like a two-edged sword. This 
 poor creature, so sensible of the disgrace of his birth, might 
 teach me a lesson. I only owed it to the kindness of a few 
 that I had not been altogether ^bjuidoned as he had been. 
 
72 MARaARBT; OR, 
 
 I, too, ought to keep my disgrace to myself, and journey 
 through the world alone. 
 
 " You see," continued Jem, " when I was young^they used 
 to send waggon -loads of children from the Foundling where 
 I was, down to the factories. I was sent when I was seven 
 years old, and a hard time I had of it, for the factories wasn't 
 managed then as they are now. Bad usage, and bad living, 
 and heavy work, made a cripple of me ; and then they sent 
 me to the Workhouse, where I wasn't treated much better. 
 I ran away at last, and went to London. I begged money 
 enough to buy a broom, and took to sweeping a street 
 crossing. Then I took to going errands, but I couldn't get 
 a place for want of a character. One day^ — ^it's ten year ago 
 now — I carried a box and a carpet bag for a gentleman as 
 come by coach. As we was going along I saw a poor sick 
 Iboking woman with a lot of ragged children. I set the 
 trunk down and put my hand in my pocket and threw her 
 some copperj and the gentleman turned round and said : — 
 What did you do that for? ain't you poor enough yourself 
 •without doing that ?' So I says, ' Master, I suppose it's be- 
 cause I am so poor that I did do that !' I'm poor enough to 
 feel for them that's poorer than I am.' And. he said that 
 was quite right, and gave the woman some money hisself; 
 and when he came to his lodgings he took me into his room 
 and made me sit down and teU him all about myself; and 
 then he said : ' Jem,' just as kindly as he does now, for it 
 was Mister Chaundy, — ' Jem,' says he, ' I think I can employ 
 half your time if you like to serve me, and I'll buy you better 
 clothes.' It wasn't the promise of the clothes or the regular 
 work, though I liked both, but the kind words, that made 
 me jump at his offer. Now we've been together ten years. 
 Master's got poorer, and so have I, but that only makes us 
 keep closer together. You see we couldn't get on without 
 one another." 
 
 " But you seem to have a bad opinion of human nature, 
 Jem," I said, " since you think that prosperity could make 
 your master forget you. Do you feel that it would have the 
 same effect upon yourself?" 
 
 " I shouldn't like either of us to be tempted," said Jem. 
 " That's all I tkink about wh«u I say, ' lead us not into 
 
PREJUDICE AT HOME, 73 
 
 tensptation.' We're weaker than we think for, Miss ; and I 
 wouldn't like, either way, to lose the only friend as ever spoke 
 a kind word to me." 
 
 I could readily understand how strong was tliis tie : — thfl 
 only one who had spoken a kind word to him through a long 
 life! And this boed of kindaess, uniting two unfortunates^ 
 was it indeed so easily to be broken by the accidental eleva- 
 tion of one of them t Was this, one of the best aspects of 
 humanity, only the result of a selfish necessity ? 
 
 " You see. Miss," continued Jem ; " it's all right with two 
 people thafs well off as long as both of 'em keep prosperous. 
 Let one of 'em come down, and then it's all up. That's the 
 way tkey part. Your rich folks won't have nothing to do 
 with poor ones even wliea there's blood between 'em. Some- 
 how, I shouldn't like to see you too high and mighty to say, 
 * Jem do this or that for me.' I took to all on you when I 
 saw you first, so did Mister Chaundy, That's where it is, 
 you see ; we don't often meet pleasant company, and we 
 don't like to part with it." 
 
 " I am sure you will never find us too high and mighty to 
 acknowledge that we are pleased with your good opinion," 
 I said. 
 
 " Jem talks -verj sensibly, and I am glad you have heard 
 him," said Aunt Betsy. " Your grand-father thinks too well 
 of the world, .and Uncle Stephen won't allow there's any 
 good in it. What you have Just heard is common sense, 
 I'm much obliged to you for what you have said, Jem." 
 
 " Then, Missis and Miss Marples," said Jem, who had risen 
 to go, and now held the door in his hand, " the next tim« 
 vou ask me where I live I shalLsay in this here room and 
 down yonder in Mister Chaundy's, and nowhere else. Is 
 there anything I can do just now V 
 
 As there was not, Jem departed. I remembered in his 
 favor that though in the regular course of his vocation he 
 received payment for the conveyance of our goods, he had 
 steadily refused any remuneration for the services he rendered 
 us in the house. Not liking his "common sense" so well as 
 Aunt Betsy did, I needed this evidence of his good faith be- 
 fore placing implicit confidence in it. Instead of trusting 
 the world too far, as Uncle Stephen had feared I should do, 
 
1i JSARGAEET ; OB, 
 
 I waa inclined to look with suspicion on the Kttle aotnal good 
 that came in my way. The truth was so forbidding in coia- 
 parison with the error in which I had dwelt so many years, 
 that I bad little inclination! to believe anything. 
 
 I was glad to turn to roy book and forget this too real 
 ■world in the pages of " Don Quixote." I yielded all rqy 
 sympathies to this old knight, who was compelled by a restless 
 energy of character to go forth and do something, and by a 
 jiatural abhorrence of wrong to proclaim himself the cham- 
 pion of the oppressed. Honoring his motives, I did not see 
 all the absurdity of his exploits, and I got angry with those 
 who turned him and them into ridicule. So absorbed was I 
 that I eould scarcely listen to my girand-father when he re- 
 turned to tell «s that the person to whom he applied bad no 
 work for him at present, but would remember him at some 
 future time. 
 
 Bless God for that power of forgetting self in others ! so 
 long as it is present with us we have no need to complain of 
 the burden of life. 
 
 Oa tbe folSowing morning, greatly annoyed at being com- 
 pelled to attend to my own affaire, I accompanied my grand- 
 father and Jem, who led the way to Wimpole Street. As 
 we west along my grand-father instrncted me in what I 
 should say ; but, as I found afterwards, the main thing was 
 OTerlooked by both of us. 
 
 Having arrived at the street, and found the number of the 
 house, I left nsy two conapanions, and approached the door 
 with some trepidation.. My tow, tremulous knock was 
 answered- by a shabby footman, who, when he understood 
 my business, showed me into a back parlor while he went to 
 aiinounce my presence. . He came back before I wished to 
 see him, and asked me to walk up stairs. I followed him 
 accordingly, and was ushered into a drawing-room in which 
 two ladies were seated. My courage rose with the call upon 
 it, and I curtsyed (arf accomplishment, by the way, that 
 Aunt Betsy had tangbt me) and walked forward, and looked 
 these two, who might be the arbiters of my future destin)', 
 in the face. The eldest lady was decidedly old. I only 
 'noted respecting her that her nose was rather disagreeably 
 Looked and that she wore a wig and a tm'ban. The youngei 
 
PRfiJUDIOE AT HOME. 75 
 
 lady was, stout and rather good-looking, but her voice was 
 starlingly loUd and coarse, and her manner dictatorial. 
 
 " I understand that you come about the governess's place," 
 said the latter. "Sit down. I am very particular, as the 
 register-office people may have told you. I have found that 
 very young people do not sufficiently consider the interest 
 of their employers, and you seem very young : what age are 
 you ?" 
 
 I told her, and the old lady shook her head. 
 
 " That is very young indeed," said the loud-voiced lady, 
 whom I understood to be the mistress of the house, Mrs. 
 "Wilton. One can hardly imagine that you have completed 
 your own education. What do ycju pofess to teach ?" 
 
 I underwent the disagreeable ordeal of enumerating my 
 own accomplishments. 
 
 The old lady, who informed me that she was a French- 
 woman, then addressed me in her native language; and, 
 after some conversation, professed herself to be well satisfied. 
 Indeed, she paid me the compliment to say, that she had 
 rarely met with an English person who eould speak the lan- 
 guage so well. 
 
 " That is satisfactory so far," said Mrs. Wilton. Now with 
 regard to music, you will perhaps play a little." 
 
 She opened the folding doors that led to the back draw- 
 ing-room, in which stood a piano. I had more, confidence 
 in my musical powers than in any other ; I had a natural 
 taste, if not talent, that way ; and, thanks to Uncle Stephen, 
 I had made some progress. I- played until I was desired to 
 stop. 
 
 " You play very ereditably indeed," says Mrs. Wilton. — 
 " How,about drawing ?" 
 
 At my grand-father's suggestion I had taken some of my 
 drawings with me, and these I now exhibited ; they seemed 
 to give satisfaction. 
 
 " The great difficulty I have to contend with, said Mrs. 
 Wilton, throwing herself upon a lounge, as if the very 
 thought of it overcame her, "is the selfishness of those I 
 have employed in this capacity. They all consider their 
 own interest before mine, which creates a difficulty ; and I 
 do not know how to act. I have been compelled to adopt 
 
16 paftitDICB AT HOME. 
 
 the plan of receiving governesses a month on trial, with no 
 salary during the month. Of course , if I engage you, it 
 tcill be necessary to acquaint your parents with my invaria- 
 ble aysljem." 
 
 If a passing thought suggested to me that this " invaria- 
 ble system" had something to do with Mrs. "Wilton's frequent 
 change of governesses, I did not allow it to daunt me. I said 
 that my ^and-father would attend upon her, if she wished. 
 
 " Your grand-father ?" she repeated ; are your parents 
 dead?" 
 
 "My mother is dead," I replied. 
 
 " Your father is living, then. What is he I- — what pro- 
 fession or trade, I mean ; I am obliged to be particular about 
 those I take into my house." 
 
 I had not been prepared for this question, and it upset me 
 altogether. The truth was not to be told, aind nothing in 
 the shape of an equivoque occurred to me. Far stronger 
 than any emotion of shame or distress was that of resent- 
 ment against the man whom I was thus unexpect«dly called 
 upon to particularize and acknowledge. It seemed as if 
 Providence, taking his part, permitted him, even unwittingly^, 
 to be the means of frustrating my effort for self'help - My 
 blood ran hot and cold during the full minute that I stoodr 
 with downcast eyes, unable to frame a reply. 
 
 Doubtless the curiosity of the ladies had been aroused. 
 
 " What is your name ?" inquired Mrs. Wilton. 
 
 " Margaret Marples." 
 
 " Your father's name is Marples ?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 There was another pause, during which my interrogators 
 might have exchanged significant glances. 
 
 " Were you brought up by your grand-father ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "What is to calling?" 
 
 I had a keen consciousness that the truth would tell 
 against me when I acknowledged that he had been a verger 
 
 in Cathedral, and that at present he was in Loudon 
 
 seeking work for himself. 
 
 '' And he.brought you up so expensively t -Did you say 
 he had been dismissed from the cathedral 2" 
 
PEBJUUIOE AT HOME. 77 
 
 I had not said so but I acknoivledged this to be true. 
 
 " And how long have you been in London ?" 
 
 " Only two days." 
 
 " This is extraordinary. Of course, you were aware that 
 I should expect a most unexcBptionable reference. You 
 must be well known in ?" 
 
 Here was another question that seemed unanswerable. 
 It was odd that my grand-father had not even considered 
 the possibility of sueh inquiries. My embarrassment was 
 becoming too painful to be borne, and I determined by a 
 bold effort to free myself at any price. 
 
 " My grand-father," I said, " was peculiarly situated at 
 . Though no one could say anytiihg against his char- 
 acter, I know that he had few friends. Until I have spokeDi 
 with him, I am not prepared to give a reference."' 
 
 Upon glancing at the two ladies, I found that I had pro- 
 duced a theroughly unfavorable impression. Mrs. Wilton 
 spoke immediately. 
 
 '■ Upon second thoughts, I consider you too young to 
 undertake so,serio,us a charge," she said : " I am sorry that 
 you have had this trouble. Good morning." 
 
 She rang the bell as she spoke ; and understanding that I 
 was dismissed, I returned the salutation and walked down 
 stairl', where the footman opened the street door for me. As 
 Jem was still with us in the capacity of guide (for he had 
 waited from the neighborhood of Clerkenwell,) I deferred 
 what I chiefly had to say until we reached home, merely 
 mentioning the objection to my youth. When we were 
 alone', and I had given an account of all that passed, my 
 grand-father was much distressed. 
 
 " I did think of all this," he said " but not until you had 
 entered the house ; I ought to have accompanied you." 
 
 " And to what purpose would you have accompanied her ?" 
 said Aunt Betsy. " You yourself have no reference to give. 
 All your life you have allowed the sins "of others to crush 
 you down, and except amongst the very poor, whose good 
 word would go for nothing, you have not a friend to help 
 you in such a case as this. What I warned you of has 
 come to pass, Thomas Marples." 
 
 " All along I have been in the Lord's hands," said my 
 
V8 MARGARET; OK, 
 
 grand-father. " My trust in Him is unshaken, and to-night 
 we will consult with Mr. Chaundy." 
 
 Throughout the worst of my troubles, I possessed the 
 power of looking forward, or dashing them aside in the pre- 
 sent. I never sat down to lament over them. On the 
 present occasion, I returned with avidity to "Don Quixote." 
 In the evening, when Mr. Chaundy joined- us, I divided my 
 attention betwixt the conversation and this absorbing book. 
 
 My grand-father acquainted him with the great difficulty 
 that stood in my way. 
 
 " I begin to feel that in worldly matters, I am only a 
 blind leader of the blind," he continued. " I have left my- 
 self helpless, for I have no right to expect any man to credit 
 my partial account of the past. Neither do I wish to drag 
 the past back for any purpose, yet it seems necessary in 
 self-defence. You, sir, who have yourself known trouble, 
 may understand how a man can be crushed down without 
 exactly deserving it. Circumstances compelled me to bring 
 up this child in obscurity, so that she is less known in her 
 native city than even here. Circumstances, too, over which 
 I had no control, gave oflfence to the Dean and others, and 
 led to my dismissial from a situation that I had held more 
 
 than thirty years. My brother, the present mayorjdf , 
 
 is wealthy : my poverty was a stumbling-block in his way, 
 and he disowned me. I have not 'widened these breaches 
 by showing resentment, and they are wide enough without 
 that. If the Lord was not with us, our case would now be 
 desperate." 
 
 " I can well believe," said Mr. Chaundy, " that you are 
 more sinned against than sinning. But it is not well in 
 this world to put up too tamely with what is unreasonable, 
 A little pluck is necessary in these days, in which martyrdom 
 may be perpetuated through a long life. We may go too 
 far in not resisting evil." 
 
 "That is what I have said to my brother all along," said 
 Aunt Betsy. " If / had been the man, we should not have 
 been brought to this state." 
 
 " It is little that a man can do when his hands are tied, 
 except trust in God," said my grand-father. 
 
 " The fact is," said Mr. Chaundy, lighting his pipe, and 
 
PREJUDICE AT HOME. 79 
 
 puffing away vehemently, " the fact is, it is hard work steer- 
 ing a strait course through this worfd to the next. I find 
 it a difficult matter myself. I do things that, upon mature 
 deliberation, I cannot approve of,^what, under different 
 circumatances, I would not do, — but I see no help. There 
 is this advantage in a poor man steering wrong — tht) world 
 will be sure to nxake such a noise about it that he may well 
 afford to spare himself. I Look upon this as a providenti-al 
 kind of defence, without which there would be no getting 
 on. If I thought so hardly of myself as Archdeacon Dixon 
 showed me I had need to do the other day, I might go and 
 hang myself at once. As- to wealthy relations, they are the 
 greatest clog that a man in difficulty has, besides being of 
 no use. They envelope us in an atmosphere of dark and 
 bitter thoughts so that we cannot breathe freely. Altogether, 
 sir, you may depend upon it that poverty in th«se. days 
 is a very ugly affair." 
 
 "We are all willing to work," said my grand-father. 
 " We only ask to be allowed to live by our own labor." 
 
 " That is all that thousands have askeJ who people our 
 workhouses, and madhouses, and prisons," said Mr. Chaundy. 
 "The many af6 ground down for the few, in spite of th« 
 Christianity, the philanthropy, and liberty of which England 
 boasts. This I know to, be the truth, because I have felt 
 and seen it. Dotft let me alarm yoCi, however; and as to 
 Miss Marples — refer to me ; — Reverend Joseph 'Chaundy — 
 that sounds well enough, if people are not too inquisitive, and 
 you can address me at the Clerical Club. I can very con- 
 scientiously say all that any reasonable person would require." 
 
 We found reason, day by day, to think more highly of 
 Mr. Chaundy. He entered warmly into our interests, ad- 
 vising and planning, and using his personal influence for my 
 grand-father; attending to our daily convenience in conjunc- 
 tion with Jem ; and in many ways doing his best to help 
 and cheer us ; so that we could not do otherwise than be- 
 come attached to him. He continued to supply me with 
 books, both French and English, and being himself a French 
 scholar, we frequently conversed together in that language. 
 The history of France had inspired me with a dislike of 
 Frenchmen, which Mr. Chaundy first attempted to remove. 
 
80 MARGARET ; OB, 
 
 He had no strong prejadice in fayor of my own contrymen 
 to battle with ; the few I bad come in contact with had 
 chiefly excited my abhorrence ; ' and the cold, hard, un- 
 approachable, hurrying crowd of that great city only re- 
 minded me of Uncle Stephen's words — that all men were 
 self-seekers, all worshippers of the visible god— Gold. 
 
 Little, too, as I bad yet been in the streets, I had been 
 struck by the general want of courtesy. No respect was 
 paid to age or sex by that pushing, driving self-absorbed 
 multitude ; and when, on two or three occasions, my grand- 
 father and I were nearly knocked down, and then rudely told 
 to keep out of the way, I said to myself, this, on a larger 
 scale, is only what we have met with before — 'Go out of my 
 way, — ^trouble me not,- — ^hinder me not, — we have nothing 
 in common, even as fellow worms, — ^let me pass on V This 
 was what the great crowd said to me, and what men 'who 
 held their heads above the crowd had said before. The chill 
 of desolation struck to my heart in the midst of thai populous 
 city, in whose power, and magnificence, and pleasure we had 
 no share, and from whose philanthropy, blazoned on many 
 a dead wall, we hoped nothing. There was not a Single 
 individual in that mass of human beings to whom we coSd 
 turn and say — 'Brother, we are in afBiotion, and need sym- 
 pathy ; we are wronge<i, and want help.* I had extravagant 
 notions, doubtless, but Jjie extravagance to me was the ap- 
 parent utter dearth of the commonest sympathy that one 
 might expect to find amongst a community of savages. All 
 this reminded me of what Uncle Stephen had said — of what 
 my grand-father had hoped in vain. No such vain seeker 
 of the world's favor would I be : I was prepared to give in- 
 difference for indifference, contempt for contempt, hate for 
 hate. 
 
 " You do the French injustice, so far as the working classes 
 are concerned," said Mr. Channdy to me one night. " The 
 very audacity and fierceness of their occasional outbursts 
 prove that there is noble stuff in them. The man of the 
 blouse is never ashamed of his calling, which he knows to 
 be honorable ; he makes no struggle to rise above it, but 
 takes his stand on the dignity oi labor, boldly claiming for 
 his class the high position which few dare outwardly dispute. 
 
FBBJ'UDIOB AT HOMB, 81 
 
 This intrepid self-respect lifts the French artizan altogether 
 out of vulgarity and servility. He is the thing he seems, 
 and he is proud of what he is, and if he struggles, it is for 
 his order, not for his individual self Then, in addition to 
 this feeling of dignity and iildependenoe, the very lowest 
 class in France is characterised by a strong love for literature 
 and art. Most of the workmen are familiar with the noblest 
 writers of their country, — with Moliere, Eaoine, Corneille; 
 and the songs of Beranger fill the land. This is not the 
 result of outward circumstances; not merely because the 
 education of the people has made greater progress in France 
 than elsewhere ; tha* free lectures on the different sciences 
 are open in every quarter of Paris ; that schools for drawing, 
 music, and singing, »may be attended free of expense; but 
 primarily, because of a natural thirst for knowledge, and love 
 of the noble and the beautiful in the people themselves. And 
 this elevation of sentiment makes the people courteous ; — 
 not pityfuUy servile as we are to the rich and powerful, but 
 courteous alike to all, — the poorest as well as the highest. 
 In these respects, and they are important, the French are 
 our superiors. They look with contempt upon our mean 
 adulation of money without generosity or wit, and power 
 without greatness ; and ridicule our insane, sordid, vulgar 
 scramble after respectability. In France men unite for a 
 common object, whose glory is reflected upon all ahke ; in 
 England men think alike, it is true, each one for his in- 
 dividual self, and this is not union." 
 
 Everything I heard and saw convinced me that I had 
 much to learn — or unlearn. At present all my energies were 
 to be directed to t|ie means of procuring food,' clothing, and 
 shelter — those smallest yet most, important wants of an ever- 
 craving life. Something beyond these I needed in order to 
 live with satisfaction ; I could not look forward with patience 
 to a career of incessant abject drudgery ; I was proud and 
 disappointed, and thirsted for the power and the leisure to 
 repel others and gratify myself ; I had seen those I loved 
 suffer wrong, and I burned to witness the humiliation of the 
 oppressors. I had not yet begun to fear that I, who desired 
 so much, should find it a hard matter to live from day to 
 day. I was sufficiently easy in mind to note curiously many 
 
82 maegaebt; ob, 
 
 things that came under my observation. Our landlady be- 
 longed to the sect called Ranters, and on certain days in the 
 week she had gatherings at the house, during which dis- 
 courses were delivered and hymns sung. I had been down 
 to pay the rent one evening, when several persons were 
 assembled in the front parlor. A dark-complexioned, Stern- 
 looking man followed me into the passage, and placing his 
 hand upon my shoulder, asked in a solemn tone, " What was 
 the state of my soul ?" 
 
 " Do you care about my soul ?" I asked, rather abruptly, 
 
 " Don't you think the Lord Jesus teaches me to care for 
 all souls?" said the man. "Don't I yearn over you as a 
 brand that may be snatched from the burning, — as a lost 
 sheep that may be brought into the fold ? Come to the 
 meeting to-night, and let us rejoice over you as a dear sister." 
 
 Here was something like Christian communion. I thought 
 I should like to go, merely to study these people more closely, 
 but my grand-father had spoken against their errors, and I 
 was not sure that I could obtain leave. I told' the man I 
 would con'Sider about it, and he protested loudly against the 
 danger of "considering" as I walked up-stairs. I repeated 
 what I had heard, and, as I expected, my grandrfather raised 
 an objection. 
 
 " Lot us cleave to our own church, and not be driven about 
 by every wind of doctrine," he said. " If these people 
 worship God in the spirit, so much the better for them ; we 
 can do the same without disgracing our own profession by 
 departing from it." 
 
 "Yet these people preach Christ," I said. "It seems that 
 our indifference and dislike to one another originates chiefly 
 in this dividing of the church into sects." 
 
 "Didn't you find enough of indifference and dislike amongst 
 Church people ?" asked Aunt Betsy, sharply. 
 
 There was no denying this. 
 
 " For my part," she continued, " when I lived by myself I 
 went mostly amongst the Methodists, and liked them, though 
 there's worldliness enough about them, too. They have no 
 proud bishops and deans, too grand to trouble themselves 
 with poor people." 
 
 My grand-father entered upon a lengthened defence of the 
 
PKEJUDICE AT HOME. 
 
 8^ 
 
 church dignitaries, which was not concluded when Mr. 
 Chaundy joined us. Aunt Betsy repeated to him my ad- 
 venture in the passage, adding, " she says she should like to 
 hear those people," 
 
 " You are inclined to be tolerant, I see," he said, turning 
 towards me and smiling. " These men do an immense 
 amount of good amongst the ignorant and the vicious, the 
 thousands who never see the insid§ of a church, and who are 
 only to be roused by the thundering declamation, the fierce 
 threatenings, and rough though forcible appeals in which 
 unlettered men excel. As to you, they might disgust you, 
 especially if it happened to be what tbey call a 'love 
 feast.' But the truth is, sir," he continued, turning to my 
 grand-father, "our church would be none the worse if 
 another John "Wesley was raised up to rouse it froni its 
 spiritual apathy. We are too smooth aiid genteel to suit 
 other than refined congregations, and a man's conscience 
 may be French polished till no chance drop of grace can 
 penetrate it. Truth is a ^ough customer after all, and it is 
 quite as well not to have that to find out at last, as is too 
 often the case." 
 
 "I think I shall go down and hear these people myself," 
 said Aunt Betsy, pausing in her knitting work. Their voices 
 uniting in a psalm tune carae clearly up to us. 
 
 " I should like to go with you," I said. 
 
 " Let her go, said Mr. Chaundy," seeing my grand-father 
 about to object. "She is old enough and has sense enough 
 to detect anything she finds wrong, and she has her aunt 
 with her." 
 
 " There ought not to be anything wrong when people are 
 worshipping God," said my grand-father. "Well, go." 
 
 Just as we were my aunt and I went down. We paused 
 in the passage until the singing was concluded, and then 
 knocked at the door, which was quickly opened. Without 
 any one speaking a word, places were found for us, and we 
 sat down on different, benches. The room was filled with 
 men and women, young and old, and I fancied that many 
 of the females, like our landlady, had a most forbidding 
 aspect. The same man I had encountered in the passage 
 was elevated upon a box at one end of the loom. and held a 
 
84 marsaret; or, 
 
 book ,in his hand, which he put down after we were seated, 
 and commenced preaching. His vehement action' and vooi- 
 fei'ous. articulation startled me at first, and then offended me, 
 especially as I watched the deepening color on his face, and 
 saw a white foam gather about his mouth. If my conscience 
 was not French polished, it was naturally too cold to agree 
 with this red hot appeal to unconverted sinners. He certainly 
 could not be accused of smoothness or gentility, as he gave 
 utterance to a great deal of what sounded to me like gross 
 abuse. Then there was no variety to atone for this, the dis- 
 course consisting chiefly of repetitions considered necessary 
 for those who stood already on the brink of hell fire. If to 
 me, however, these violent anathemas and exhortations ap- 
 peared even impious, they evidently had a diflferent effect 
 upon those around me. The noise made by the preacher 
 was heightened by exclamations on every side. Lost and 
 altogether sunk in perdition, as they were represented to be, 
 they seemed by their words and actions to be sensible of 
 even greater unworthiness and peril. Beating their breasts, 
 groaning, shouting, and, as in the case of the man who sat 
 next me, scarcely seeming to know what they were about,, 
 the confusion became so oppressive, that I fairly wished my- 
 self out of it. The man I have alluded to as sitting next 
 me, apparently in a paroxysm of overwrought feeling, had 
 thrown his arm round my waist, and held me with so tight 
 a grasp, that I could not extricate myself. His excitement 
 seemed, so genuine, that on the score of his evidently not 
 knowing what he was about, I was inclined to excuse the 
 liberty, until I found that on becoming cahner he discovered- 
 no intention to release me, though he somewhat relaxed his 
 grasp. When I put my hand to his, for the purpose of 
 pushing it away, he gave my fingers a powerful squeeze, de- 
 taining them several rainntes. In my distress I looked to- 
 wards Aunt Betsy, who sat rigidly erect with her eyes fixed 
 upon the preacher. If this was merely a demonstration of 
 Christian love, which it might be, I could not help acknow- 
 ledging a preference for the indifference to which I had been 
 more accustomed. I did not, however, incline to such a 
 belief, and viewing the man's conduct in the light of an im- 
 
PREJUDICE AT HOMB, 83 
 
 pertinence, I desired Lim, in a low tone, to take his arm 
 away, 
 
 " Oh, the love of them as knows they're all one in Christ !" 
 exclaimed the man, giving me an additional squeeze. " Is 
 there any on us as doesn't love one another ? — is any on us 
 in this room wicked to that ere degree ?" 
 
 He spoke in a loud tone, as if he meant to be heard. In- 
 deed the chief feature of the meeting was this privilege to 
 ^eak, singly or altogether, as it happened ; 'the preacher 
 frequently enlarging on what was said, as he did now, until 
 the demonstrations of Christian affection became quite alarm- 
 ing. In the midst of my own trouble, heightened by an 
 attempt to kiss me, which I frustrated by forcibly dashing 
 my hand in my neighbor's face, I observed Aunt Betsy 
 engaged in a brief struggle with a small, wizened, elderly 
 man, who, on attempting to pay her a like compliment, 
 found himself suddenly, lifted from the ground, and dashed 
 backward, to the great discomposure of the more peaceably 
 inclined. In the midst of the confusion that ensued, my 
 aunt strode forward, and seized my arm. 
 
 "I think you ought to be ashamed," she said, "calling 
 yourself Christians, and suffering such doings before young 
 people ! Let us pass out." 
 
 There seemed to be an attempt to stop us. 
 
 " What is ■ our dear sister offended at ?" exclaimed the 
 preacher ; " or is she not a dear sister ? Is there no Chris- 
 tian love in her ?" 
 
 " No, there isn't," said Aunt Betsy, sharply, " nor in you 
 either, nor in any of you. I consider these doings quite 
 scandalous, and I am sorry I brought my niece here." 
 
 " I hope you don't mean to say anything scandalous 
 about my house," said Mrs. Dent, our landlady, here show- 
 ing her sour visage. " I've kept house here thirty years, 
 and never had anything against my character." 
 
 " It would speak better for your character if you would 
 show a little more civility from day to day instead of burst- 
 ing upon us all at once in this boisterous manner," said 
 Aunt Betsy. " You stand out of the way there, and let us 
 go out!" 
 
 The preacher again raised his voice, but we managed to 
 
86 MARGARET; OR, 
 
 get away and left him speaking. My aunt took no pains to 
 conceal her indignation as she entered our room adjusting 
 her cap. As for me, I dare say my face was all in a flame, 
 and my angry excitement had taken away my breath. 
 
 " The meeting has been a failure, I see," said Mr. Chaun- 
 dy, smiling. 
 
 " I am sure I never saw anything so shameful in my life," 
 said Aunt Betsy, indignantly. " There was the whole set of 
 them suddenly falling to kissing and embracing one another 
 — and this child amongst them ! I saw some fellow kissing 
 you, Margaret." 
 
 The shame, and indignation, and annoyance, united with 
 this exposure, was more than I could bear, and I burst into 
 tears. 
 
 " Come to me, my poor child !" said my grand-father : " I 
 said'you ought not to go." ' 
 
 I leaned my head, sobbing, on my grand-father's shoulder ; 
 and then it suddenly ocoured to me that I was making my. 
 self ridiculous, and I looked up and dashed away my tears. 
 
 "I am sure you did not see any one kiss me, Aunt Betsy," 
 I said. " I struck.J;he man who sat next me in the face just 
 as you knocked down the little old man who made a like 
 attempt with yourself; and I am afraid I hurt him, for when 
 we came out he was holding his hand before his eyes." 
 
 Mr. Chauudy laughed long and loudly. " We talk a deal 
 about Christian love and fellowship," he said, " without 
 seeming able to come to a right understanding about it. At 
 one time our tender concern for men's soulds led us to tor- 
 ture and burn their bodies, and I don't know if that was not 
 better than what you have seen to- night. We that are old 
 have an uncomfortable consciousness that the young are 
 doomed to disappointment. We have been disappointed 
 ourselves, and a long life shows us no remedy for life's evils." 
 
 My grand-father denied this position, and declared God's 
 grace to be sufiBoient for a probationary existence. As I 
 watched Mr. Chaundy, puflBng away at his pipe without 
 answering, I was impressed, as I had been before, with the 
 belief that he, Churchman as he was, had not found a refuge 
 from dissatisfaction in this doctrine. 
 
 " Jem," said my grand-father, addressing that personage 
 
PRBJUDICK AT HOME. 87 
 
 on the previous' Saturday, " wtat church does Mr. Chaundy 
 attend ?" 
 
 " Lor', bless you !" said Jem, " ne never attends no church 
 when he hasn't got to preach ; what should he for, when 
 he be chock full o' sermons hisself ? He don't go to church 
 in a ordinary way, nor me neither." 
 
 " Does he not tell you that you ought to go ?" 
 
 " Lor', no ! Mister Chaundy sometimes preaches in these 
 here churches when the curates wants a holiday, and then I 
 goes, in course ; but in a general way he says to me, ' Jem,' 
 says he, ' you do as you like about it : for I'm not quite sure 
 that going to church won't spile you !" 
 
 This, and similar testimony, made my grand-father dis- 
 trustful of Mr. Chaundy, who was, nevertheless, the only 
 friend we had, and a good friend too — better than any we 
 
 had found amongst the high churchman at ; better 
 
 than any we were likely to find amongst the " Ranters." 
 He reminded me of Uncle Stephen, who helped us quietly 
 and unobtrusively, and without parading his own generosity, 
 or the godliness which, if it becomes disgusting to us, must 
 be unendurable to the Searcher of all hearts. For my part, 
 I was thankful that we had met with a man who seemed 
 better inclined to act well than to sermonise or dictate. 
 
 We had now been a fortnight in London and found noth- 
 ing to do. I understood, rather from my grand-father's 
 looks than from anything he said, that our small means were 
 dwindling away in the meantime. The register-office peo- 
 ple had not as yet heard of anything that would suit me, and my 
 grand-father's application to the law-stationers and attorneys 
 had produced nothing. Aunt Betsy seemed very equable 
 under all this until one day, when my grand-father was out, 
 she thus addressed me. 
 
 " It's of no use going on in this way, Margaret, because it 
 can't last, and we mustn't expect to live in idleness. If I 
 could have got sewing work you might have helped me 
 rather than do nothing, but I have tried hard and I can't. 
 You heard what Mr. Chaundy said the other night about 
 the French considering all labor honorable: — that's just 
 what I think myself. Let me live by the work of my hands 
 without being a burden upon anybody and I shall be .satis- 
 
 4 
 
88 MABaABET; es, 
 
 fied. I sTiall go out to wash, or do any other hard work 
 that I can get. Don't mention it till I have tried ; but 
 this is what I mean to do, and thank God that I have health 
 and strength for it." 
 
 Autit Betsy V resolution showed me at once all the peril 
 of out situation. The gr^t agony to me was the knowledge 
 that I had been the main cause of this distress. My proud, 
 indignant feelings, and the great things I wanted to do, 
 crumbled to nothing. I was brought down to a craving and 
 praying for work, — any sort of drudgery by which I might 
 avert the utter destitution that lay before us. And Aunt 
 Betsy, strong in her priuciples and resolute about putting 
 them into praetiee, was the irst amongst us to obtain em- 
 ployment. A few nights after the above conversation she 
 again spoke out as we were retiring to rest. ' 
 
 " I have got a place. Margaret," she said : " that is< 1 
 have got work as a chairwoman. To-morrow morning I 
 shall be up and awake before daylight. That queer creature, 
 Jem, recommended me : so you see how little patronage is 
 needed to enable one to live." , 
 
 Though I had expected this, my very soul quivered at the 
 reality. My heart struggled with a mighty pang. 
 
 " God !" I said, " my dear, poor aunt, if 1 could only 
 save you from this !" 
 
 " From what, you silly child ?" said Aunt Betsy. " What 
 have I done but work all my life ? And it does me good ; 
 if you want to kill me keep me idle. Just listen to me, 
 your grand-father knows all about it, for I told him to-day. 
 Thank God, you knoW all sorts of housework, so he won't 
 be lost ; and whatever you do keep your spirits up — don't 
 let him see that you are cast down — don't be cast down ; 
 recollect that you are young and strong, and that he is old 
 and infirm. And now be a good' child and go to_^ sleep." 
 
 For the first time that I could remember Aunt Betsy kissed 
 me, and I soon understood from her regular breathing that 
 she slept. I could not help marvelling and reproaching my- 
 self more than ever for having often thought unkindly of 
 her. Her character shone out in adversity : she uttered no 
 reproaches, as she well might have done : and her afl'ection : 
 for myself was most exhibited when I stood in most need of 
 
PREjraaCB AT HOME. 89 
 
 it. Her mind was better jegulated than mine, if less polished : 
 I envied the calm slumber into which she had fallen, whilst 
 I lay tossed on a sea of troubled thoughts, unable for hours 
 to still the uselessly busy heart and brain, until towards 
 morning, I fell into a heavy sleep, from which I was awakened 
 by Aunt Betsy getting up in the dark. 
 
 "Are you awake?" she said, hearing me stir. 
 
 "Yes, aunt." 
 
 " Try to sleep again. I shall be back at eight or nine 
 o'clock to-night, perhaps sooner. Come, this is a good 
 beginning ; one of us has got work. By-and-by we shall all 
 do better." 
 
 She kissed me again before leaving the room. A few real, 
 hot, heart-wrung tears gushed from my eyes as I heard her 
 descending the stairs. Listening intently I soon understood 
 that she could next open the street-door. Then I heard her 
 tapping at the door of the back parlor, in wbich our land- 
 lady and her daughter slept ; and then again there was a 
 small war of words, and I distinctly heard Mrs. Dent say — 
 " What makes you want to go out at this time of the morn- 
 ing, Mrs. Marples ?" I did not catch the reply though I had 
 advanced to the top landing in my night-dress ; the outer 
 door was Opened and slammed to again with a great noise. 
 
 I crept back into the room, but not to bed. I struck 
 a light and dressed myself, and set about such work as I 
 could find ; for I had a deal of Aunt Betsy's restiveness under 
 inactivity, and I foimd bitter thoughts a bad accompaniment 
 to idleness. My dislike to our landlady had, since the night 
 we attended the meeting, been mixed with some fear of her. 
 Her always peevish and unfriendly look had since then 
 portended something worse than usual, and with all her pre- 
 tended sanctity she seemed the very sort of person likely to 
 harbor maliee. Her cold, formal, repulsive manner, though 
 disagreeable enough, mattered little so long as we could pay 
 the rent of her rooms ; but I shivered from head to foot, like 
 a leaf, at the thought of owing her anything. Then, I knew 
 enough of the world to be assured that when she came to 
 understand what took my aunt out so early, she would take 
 advantage of the knowledge and our evident poverty. An 
 intuitive sense of the nobleness of Mr. Chaundy's nature 
 *4 
 
90 MARGABET ; OB, 
 
 forbade any such apprehension in his case, but the false 
 shame, from which none are free, made me look for our next 
 interview with anxiety — and an internal shrinking from I 
 knew not what ; for I had sense enough to know that Aunt 
 Betsy had done rightly and nobly ,^8enBe enough to feel 
 proud of her, and to love her better than I had ever done 
 before. And this was with me no mere sentimentalising 
 about what I conceived to be just ; for I had already resolved 
 to join Aunt Betsy in her labor if no better might be. I had 
 th« sort of pride that would not endure others drudging for 
 me as I would not drudge for them or myself; and at heart 
 the shackles of this woiTd's opinion hung loosely about me ; 
 I could shake them at will — by a strong effort I knew that 
 I could cast them from me altogether. 
 
 As if he had divined all I thought and felt, Mr. Chaundy 
 greeted us at night with more than his usual cordiality. He 
 made no secret of missing Aunt Betsy, but spake at once of 
 her absence, and the occasion of it ; and, seeming to under- 
 stand that our necessities were more urgent than he had 
 supposed, he entered into the subject, and wandered to no 
 other.' 
 
 " It is a beautiful thing," he said, drawing his chair to the 
 fire and taking out his pipe, " to consider how bold and 
 earnest a spirit God has given us wherewith to battle with 
 the difficulties of life. The very belief in this spirit 'is 
 worth half the homilies that were ever preached. Never 
 mind that vulgarity frequently starts out of its path in need- 
 less fear of contamination ; that indolence at all times 
 shudders to contemplate it ; for the reward of resolution is 
 two-fold, enabling us to laugh at the squeamishness at the 
 same time that we escape the worst tyranny of the world. 
 No one has started at shadows more than I have done through 
 life, and it is often the fate of such as me to be curst with a 
 lively sense of their own folly. We addict, ourselves to one 
 pursuit ; we prepare ourselves for it, and, not meeting with 
 the success we anticipated, we give up the game of life like 
 poltroons. We become cowardly for others as well as for 
 ourselves ; we are diseased, and we shrink from the efforts 
 of a vigorous spirit as a consumptive patient shrinks from 
 the blast of winter. There is a look of determination about 
 
PRBJUDIOE AT HOME. 91 
 
 you, Miss Mai'ples, ttat struck me at first as lite something 
 in your aunt's countenance and manner, tiiougli' there all 
 resemblance ends. Like her, I dare say you would not 
 mind making a beginning at anything th^ might at least 
 be made useful as a stepping-stone. In short, I know of a 
 place that, though it would not suit any one very particular, 
 might be made something of in your hands." 
 
 I expressed my eager wish to take a situation of any 
 description. 
 
 " I will tell you all the truth about it,'' said Mr. Chaundy. 
 "Whilst preaching several. times at a neighboring church, I 
 received occasional invitations to dine with the family of a 
 tradesman. I have seen a good deal of them at different 
 times, and have not been impressed in their favor. The 
 tradesman himself is a grocer, in a large way,,and what is 
 called a thorough' man of the woild. His wife is an unedu- 
 cated woman, who might be respectable, but who makes 
 herself vulgar and disagreeable by aping the fine lady, and 
 striving after gentility as the one great good of existence. 
 The children, and there is a swarm of them, are what might 
 be expected from such a bringing up, — self-confident, rude, 
 and ignorant. Some of them have finished their education ; 
 and for the rest, Mrs. Brown thinks it would be cheaper, as 
 well as more genteel, to employ a governess at home. I, 
 who am looked upon in the light of a respectable acquaint- 
 ance, have been consulted on this matter. Now it went 
 against my conscience to recommend you to this place, but 
 if you have courage to try your best, I dare say I could 
 procure it for you. At all events, my recommendation 
 would in that quarter be sufficient." 
 
 He had said nothing to daunt me, and I was suflSciently 
 conscious that I could not afford to be too particular. I 
 expressed my willingness to go, and" thanked him. 
 
 " There are a few difficulties in the way that we may be 
 able to stare down," he continued. " Mrs. Brown has no 
 respect for talent, seeing that it may hired and cheapened, 
 and kept in a subordidate state. If we could manage by 
 any means to bring in the fact that your great-uncle is 
 mayor of , it would benefit you very materially." 
 
 My grand-father shook his head, and I protesetd against 
 
92' MAReARKT ; OB, 
 
 such a posibility eagerly. "I know nothing of him," I 
 said ; " I never even saw him ; it is quite impossible." 
 
 " Well, under all the cirourostances of the case, it wouldn't 
 do. She would Itoast of his acquaintance, ask an introduc- 
 tion to him, and want to know how often you corresponded. 
 This is one side of the question ; now for the other : it is 
 not adviseable she should understand that your circumstances 
 are particularly depressed, or that it should oome^to her 
 knowledge that your aunt is compelled to labor in a menial 
 capacity. Without knowing, this, she would be sufiSciently 
 inclined to keep you down ; knowing it, she would be inso- 
 lent." 
 
 " Christ did not teach that poverty was a crime," said my 
 grand-father. 
 
 " My dear sir, his teaching avails us little with the world. 
 Poverty is popularly con^dered to be a crime ; it is legally 
 punishable in many ways.- But crime is not the propgr 
 word ; the general idea about poverty is, that it is some 
 loathsome and disfiguring kind of leprosy, that it would be 
 an abomination to touch. For this reason we lodge our 
 robbers and murderers better than we do our paupers, and 
 our sympathies are more readily aroused for the former than 
 the latter. The fact is, deny it as we will, money-worship 
 has become the popular creed in England." 
 
 This belief, in a minister of the church, agreed with all 
 that Uncle Stephen had said. I longed to talk to him about 
 that kind friend whom I felt we had used ill. I received 
 readily these doctrines that led my heart farther from God. 
 
 " I should not like my child to enter a family so little 
 under the influence of Christian principles as the one you 
 describe," said my grand-father. " She has been brought up 
 piously, and I would have good example kept before her 
 eyes." 
 
 " That feeling is perfectly right and natural," said Mr. 
 Chaundy; "but searching for a correct Christian family 
 would be like looking for a needle in a bundle of hay. We 
 must take people as we find them ; if we are properly 
 taught, their very errors will give us light." 
 
 I was eager to enter upon this situation, and my grand- 
 father at length consented that I should try it. There was 
 
PRBJUDIOH XI HOME, 93 
 
 no need of Mrs. Brown knowing anything about A.unt Betsy, 
 who, in the event of my grand-father and myself obtaining 
 employment, might remain at home. This, then, was decid- 
 ed upon, and Mr. Chaundy prQJnised to speak to the Browns 
 the following day. 
 
 Aunt Betsy came home tired, but in good spirits. She 
 kad earned her food and eighteen , pence ; and if she had 
 found anything to complain of, she; did not mention it. She 
 heard of faiy prospects with pleasure, and perfectly acqiUiesoed 
 in the propriety of keeping hejself in the baek-ground> 
 Understanding the world far better than my grand-father 
 did, there was no surprising her ; and she submitted to 
 whatever was disagreeable or revolting as a matter of course. 
 
 With feelings altogether embittered and faith-shaken, I pre- 
 pared myself to go out into the world. I shrank a little 
 from the inevitable that lay before me. I hated hypocrisy ; 
 I was inclined to be fair and opert; and where I was going, 
 I could only expect to hate and be hated, and to parry the 
 injustice of others as well as I. could. I was determined to 
 do my duty ; I might thus satisfy seffishness, and, at all 
 events, I should feel that I was ncSt a real burden upon any 
 one. 
 
 Aunt Betsy left us at the same hour on the following 
 morning. I had occasion to go out in the course of the day, 
 and upon returning I encountered, in the passage, the man 
 who had so annoyed me on the night of the meeting. He 
 was a mean-looking individual, about thirty years of age ; 
 his pale, lank hair had a faded look, and was matched by 
 bristly white eyelashes, and his glassy blue eyes and large 
 teeth projected. Altogether he had a most repulsive look, 
 because the general expression of his face indicated low cun- 
 ning, and much ready, if well-concealed, ferocity. I shivered 
 from head to foot when he seized my arm and held me so 
 fast that I could not get away. 
 
 " Come, now," he said, in a hideous whisper, " don't be so 
 ehy ; what's the need on it ? Lor', what nice eyes yourn is ! 
 I say ! I didn't come arter the preaching that ere night ; I 
 come arter the gals, as allays likes to be hugged ; and since 
 I seen you I ain't thought o' none on 'em. I came a pur- 
 pose to see you, so do be kind to a poor feller as ha& got his 
 
94 Margaret; on, 
 
 'art damaged, and no mistake. Hush ! don't be arter screech- 
 ing in that how." 
 
 Finding that to struggle was of no use, I called aloud 
 upon our landlady, who made her appearance from the par- 
 lor. The man immediately released me, and sauntered away 
 as if nothing was the matter, 
 
 " Well, what's to do now. Miss Marples ?" said Mrs. Dent, 
 looking particularly grim and sour. 
 
 " I have been insulted by the man who has just gone 
 away, and I wished you to ?peak to him^" 
 
 " Insulted !" repeated Mrs. Dent, in a taunting tone ; " I 
 don't see why you should be so high and nrighty, that you'r 
 not to be spoken to ! That's a very respeotahle young man ; 
 and as to anything he could say to you, you needn't frighten 
 yourself, for he's as good as engaged to my daughter. And 
 if we're not good enough for you. Miss Marples, you're not 
 good enough for us, and that's the long and the short of it. 
 I've always kept my house respectable ; we're not used to 
 lodge charwomen and such like ; so, if you'Jl be good enough 
 to let your grand-father know that the rooms is wanted, 
 I shall take it as a favior." 
 
 The mingled insolence and freezing civility of this speech 
 told well upon me. Here was a sample of what I was to 
 expect from the world. My grand-father was out : he had 
 gone by appointment to the house of the law-stationer, to 
 whom he had been recommended by Mr. Ohaundy, and 1 
 expected that he would bring back work. This hope, and 
 the forlorn one that lay before myself, had slightly exhilirated 
 my spirits, and I was ashamed at feeling how easy it was to 
 cast me down again. Casting down it was not exactly, 
 for I had no height to fall from ; it was a sudden freezing of 
 the blood that had just begun to flow a. little more freely. 
 Indeed, with respect to that freezing of the blood, which 
 soon gave me a general statue-like -sensation, I was rather 
 indebted to it than otherwise, even at that early stage of my 
 experience, as the numbness seized me altogether, and dead- 
 ened the sense of feeling. It was the result of a scorn that 
 was mightier than anger, — a pride that triumphed over 
 grief. 
 
 As yet I was only a beginner ; and I certainly felt more 
 
PREJUDICE AT HOME. &5 
 
 on that Qcoasion tLan I did afterwards under far more trying 
 circumstances. I was sorry to be compelled to repeat to 
 Aunt Betsy and my grand-father the substance- of what I 
 had heard, and I was not sure that we had the means left 
 for paying our rent and going away. 
 
 My grand-father returned in good spirits, for he had ob- 
 tained employment. I told him at once the bare fact that 
 we must quit the rooms, as our landlady said she wanted them^ 
 
 " How very strange !" said my grand-father. " We have 
 paid the rent; did she mention any objection to us as lodg- 
 ers?" 
 
 I had dreaded this question, and I answered it. 
 
 "Very well," said my grand-fa ther, quietly, "perhaps we 
 shall be more comfortable elsewhere. Don't be troubled 
 about this, child ; \ye have done nothing wrong, and whilst 
 our means last we can be independent." 
 
 I felt somewhat reassured. On the whole, I was inclined 
 to be thankful that I should not have to leave my relations 
 in the hands of Mrs. Dent. They would not remove to any 
 great distance, and Mr. Chaundy could still visit them. 
 When that gentleman came in rather late to tell us that he 
 had spoken to the Browns, and that he had promised I 
 should call upon them the next morning, my grand-father 
 informed him that we had received notice to quit the house. 
 
 " Why ?" inquired Mr. Chaundy ; " what does the woman 
 mean — what did she say ?" 
 
 " I don't mind you knowing, Mr. Chaundy," said Aunt 
 Betsy, who had returned home. " She objects to me be- 
 cause I employ myself at such work as I can get. I am 
 not respectable enough for her." 
 
 Mr. Chaundy had not sat down, saying he had no time to 
 , stop ; perhaps he feai-ed interrupting my grand-father who 
 had been writing all the evening. Now, however, he sat 
 down and commenced smoking. 
 
 " This curse pursues one from the lowest class to the 
 highest," he said, — "this eternal craving for gentility. 
 None inquire after worth, and the consequence is, that few . 
 care about it. This woman began life as a sensmt. Her 
 husband was, in his lifetime, a porter in the city : now she 
 gets her livelihood by letting lodgings, and she and her 
 
96 MABd-ABET; oiH 
 
 daughter clean feathers and furs for the shcips. Yet for all 
 this, and notwithstanding her pretentions to piety, you sea 
 she cannot tolerate anything that is not respectable. How- 
 can a poor ignorant woman who has seen nothing better all 
 her life, help it ? We have our respectable churches to 
 which poverty and shabbiness are not admitted ; these are 
 filled by fashionable congregations who have a fashionable 
 preacher, a man of family, to match. As to our city 
 churches, I once heard an alderman's wife observe lha,t she 
 considered the irreligion of the very poor a great blessings 
 quite a providential circumstance, as their presence in the 
 church in large numbers would not only be unwholesome 
 but so very disreputable, The feeling, my frieflds, is uni- 
 versal, at least in this ' nation of shopkeepers,' and there is 
 nothing for it but to submit with a good grace." 
 
 " In France it is not so," I said, tiaconscious that I was 
 thinking aloud. 
 
 " Nor anywhere else," said Mr. Chaundy, " except it b^ 
 in America. That ' finest nation on the face of the earth' 
 apes us too closely to admit of its setting a noble example 
 in this matter. Yet the Americans may laugh at our tole- 
 ration of negroes, — we that will not tolerate our own poor." 
 
 " Some day I shall go to France," I said. This wish or 
 determination had occupied my mind for some time. As 
 one of the people, I longed to find myself in a land where I 
 could lift up my head for what I was : it was loathsome to 
 think of the pretence ready on every side to crush me 
 dowafor the accidental disadvantages of birth and position. 
 
 " You must not forget, Margaret," said my grand-father, 
 " that France is chiefly peopled by papists and infidels, 
 Do not indulge in dreams of finding substantial good in 
 such a place." 
 
 I was on the point of saying, — " I dont care what they 
 are so they be unlike the people around me here," but I 
 checked myself and remained silent. I felt, however, that I 
 could no longer be taught by my grand-father; the world 
 had taken that power of G-od out of his hands. 
 
PRBJCDICS AT HOME. 97 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 On the following morning Aunt Betsy remained at home- 
 and at ten o^ clock I was prepared to call on Mrs. Brown. 
 Jem walked with me to show the way. It was a very 
 crowded, bustling neighborhood, and the crowd, as usual, 
 elbowed its way after an independent fashion, that rendered 
 it necessary for every individual to look after him or her- 
 self. This unceremonious jostling in the streets, where a 
 lord would stand as little chance as any one else, seems a. 
 contradiction to the state of the case upon closer inspection. 
 This show of rude liberty which allow* the ignorant, th>) 
 arrogant, and the vicious, a wide license, and which want* 
 the restraint of nationaly good manners, is not at ail incom- 
 patible with the real slavery that fetters society at thu 
 heart's core. As we passed along, two scavengers wev) 
 filling a, cai't with street refuse. One of them (I thought 
 intentionally, and I narrowly escaped with a small sprinkling 
 of mud myself) conti-ived to bespatter a very dandified 
 young man who was picking his way with a spruce cann 
 inhis hand. A roar of laughter, in which Jem joined, sh- 
 luted this personage as he turned round with an inflame. 1 
 face to demand an explanation. 
 
 "It was a haccident," said the scavenger ; "yer should 
 keep out o' the way.'' 
 
 I passed on and left them disputing. This seemed to me 
 vej^ like an ebullition of poverty's dislike to its natural 
 enemy — ^gentility. I only pretend to speak of English 
 manners and habits as a stranger and a sojourner in t!ve 
 country for a short period, — to give faithfully the results of 
 my own experience. It may not be altdgether true tliat 
 the streets of London are unfit for a decent female to prisa 
 tbroug^h, but that was my impression to the last. I felt 
 
98 MARSABET ; on, 
 
 thankful on this occasion when Jem at length informed m« 
 that we stood before Mr. Brown's shop. 
 
 It was a large, warehouse-like place with fotsr stones ris^ 
 ing above the lower basement. Jem led me down a pas- 
 sage, where he pointed out the private door, and saying he 
 woaid wait my retuiis, left roe. My knock was answered 
 by a boy in an apron, who led me to the foot of a large 
 stair-case, and pulled f^ bell-rope, that seot-a clanging peal 
 through the house. A maid-servant presently made her 
 , appearance, and learning my name, she desired nse to follow 
 .her up-stairs. She introduced me to a large sitting-room 
 looking backwark, whore I found Mrs. Brown. 
 
 Mrs..Brown was tall andsto^t, with a la^ge florid face, enli- 
 vened by very light hair. Like Mrs. Wilton, her voice was 
 .masculine, bat that I attributed to a habit in both of speak- 
 ing louder and more confidently than seemed necessary for 
 ordinary purposes and from hour to hour. 
 
 " So you're the young— person a Mr. Chaundy recom- 
 mended for the governess sftiation. Set you down. Mr. 
 Chaundy is a friend of oum, as I suppose you know," and "^I 
 ^hougWt she tossed h-er bead a little. " He tells roe as 
 you're a horphen, and that swits me very well, as raly we'vft 
 sueh a large family aad such a circle of acquaintance as we 
 can't well do with no more people about the house. I ua- 
 .derstand as you can teach music and French 3" 
 
 I rej^ied that I believed I could. 
 
 " IRaal good French bow is it ? I think I could tell ; — will 
 you talk a bit r 
 
 I repeated a rather long passage from a work ofCbateaui- 
 briand's, which Uncle Stephen bad given me, and which I 
 Kked very much. 
 
 " Well, that sounds niee, and like raal French," said Mrs. 
 Brown. " I'm not quite ignorant of them matters you, see. 
 My daughter's larned French at a boarding-school,, and^yott 
 can touch her up a bit. I wa»t all my children to larn 
 French .and music. Now, what do you want 1" 
 
 , This was addressed to five young urchins, girls and boys, 
 ■who first .peeped in at the door, and then entered the room 
 ipi a scamper. 
 
 " Don't com© Jhere, scrpwdging in that way !" said Mrs. 
 
PEBJUDICB AT HOME. 99 
 
 'Brown. '" Where's your manners ? Louisa Caroline, take 
 ■youriflogers out of your mouth. Hubert Adolphus, if you 
 sit stroddling in that chair I'll call your par up. Now, one 
 on you go and call Miss Brown here." 
 
 " I sha'nt," said Hubert Adolphus, who retained his posi- 
 tion on the chair. 
 
 "Nor me neither," said a girl of about seven ; "she's a 
 nasty thing — -she's been slapping me." 
 
 "And served you right, I dare say," said Mrs. Brown. 
 "Leonora you will go for mar, — she's mar's pet." 
 
 " Nay," says Leonora, shaking herself, and looking ask- 
 ance at me. 
 
 " Well, I never !" ejaculated Mrs. Brown. " They're such 
 hindependent children as never was seen. But I'll tell youT 
 ;par of you." 
 
 ! She advanced to the door herself, and called out the 
 •name " Matilda Jane," and presently a young lady some 
 years older than myself, very thin and sickly looking, with 
 a large nose and dark hair plaited very elaborately, made 
 her appearance. 
 
 " Law, mar," she said, '' what do you want now ?" 
 
 " This is the governess as I'm going to hire," said Mrs. 
 Brown, " and I want you to talk French with her. Mr. 
 Chaundy says she talks it very well." 
 
 The young lady eyed me from head to foot in a very con- 
 temptuous manner. I addressed her in a short sentence 
 of French. 
 
 " That's not the way I've been used to speak it," she 
 said, " and I could talk very well at Miss Bennet's. I'm not 
 going to begin again, and that's the long and short of it, 
 •Ma." 
 
 " I expects you'll do as you're bid," said Mrs. Brown, show- 
 ing more spirit with this young lady than she had done 
 with the younger children. " Now, go your ways, and 
 mind what t say to you." The young lady departed with 
 a very defiant air. 
 
 "Now, Miss — I forget your name — oh, yes ! Marples ; 
 you understand," said Mrs. Brown, smoothing down an ex- 
 traordinary morning dress — a faded and rather greasy red 
 silk one — ^" as I want mj children to larn music and 
 
100 MARGARET ; OR, 
 
 (French; I likes ;to hire people by the month, and then if 
 they don't suit, we can make short work of it. You'll have 
 /board and lodging and twelve pound a year if you like to 
 take it. Washing won't cost you much if you wear dark 
 dresses. What.do you. say ?" 
 
 Wishing, above all things, to cease being a burden on my 
 grand-father, I considered this offer father magnificetit. I 
 had a good stock of clothes to begin with, and, as Mrs. 
 Brown said, washing would not cost me much ; I closed 
 with her offer at once. 
 
 "I believe," I said, " Mr. Chaundy informed you that I 
 had a grand-father, whom I should sometimes like to see.''-. 
 
 " Oh, yes ; he did say you'd a grand-father. Well, in 
 course you can go to see him — suiting my convenience," ! 
 
 With this understanding I promised to come for goodon 
 the following day. My grand-father and Aunt Betsy con- 
 sidered this very well for a beginning, but Mr. Chaundy was 
 highly indignant at the terms. , : . 
 
 " Jhis woman is putting upon you shamefully," he said, 
 "but I see no help for it just now. Well, we will try to 
 look out for something better." 
 
 Aunt Betsy: insisted on doing my washing. Jem could 
 take my clothes to and fro, and this was decided upon. 
 On the following morning I took leave of my grand-father, 
 Aunt Betsy,, and Mr. Chaundy, the former shedding tears ; 
 and followed by Jena, who carried, my box upon his truck, 
 I set out for Mrs. Brown's. 
 
 I was introduced to a large, naked-looking room on the 
 second floor, which the children usually occupied. On a 
 small cushioned arm-chair, placed near the fire-place^ sat a de- 
 formed girl who looked much older than her actual age^— 
 .fourteen. She was the sole occupant of the room when I 
 entered it with Mrs. Brown. 
 
 " The children's got a holiday to-day," said that lady ; 
 "you know its Christmas time, and they .looks for it. They're 
 gone to Grinnidge with a party, and won't be home till 
 night. You can keep Meely company ; and I dare say you 
 can sew well. I've some things as want furbishing up, and 
 I dares say yoii'll make something of 'em." 
 
 I expressed my willingness to try, and Mrs, Brown 
 
PBEJODIOE AT HOME. 101 
 
 brftught me a silk dress to pick to pieces and turn. She 
 then left the room, and I sat, down to my work. 
 
 The deformed girl, who had not spoken a word, continu- 
 ed looking at me with her hollow eyes. Her features were 
 unnaturally sharpened, but I saw her resemblance to the 
 rest of the children. All had the large nose, andi sallow 
 complexion, and dark hair of Mr.. Brown. 
 
 "Is your name Amelia ?'' I asked, " wishing to draw 
 her into conversation," 
 
 "Amelia Nanetta Charlotte," she replied. "Isn't it a 
 fine name for such as me ?" 
 
 " Names do not signify much," I said, " and I do not see 
 ■why you should not have a fine name as well as any one 
 else." , , ■,,,,> 
 
 " That's, all gammon," said Amefow , " I'ni not to be 
 gammoned." ' ' , i' 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " Don't you know what gammon is ? Lawj don't tell me !" 
 
 I positively heard the wOrd for the first time, ,but I had a 
 dim perception of its meaning. 
 
 ' " I speak in all sincerity," I said. " You must be lonely 
 up here. Do you ever go out ?" 
 
 " No, nobody offers to take me, and I wouldn't go if they 
 did. They're always telling me I'm ugly and a fright ; 
 they'i'e ashamed of me and I'm ashamed of myself. What 
 should I go out for I" 
 
 This was one of the afflictions of, earth of which I had 
 never dreamed. No, love in the very heart of home — ^no 
 hope beyond it — no satisfaction in self. 
 
 " Do you like reading ?" 
 
 " No, I don't. I like to sit quiet by myself, and hate 
 everybody." 
 
 "But, that is sinful." 
 
 " How do you know what's sinful ? Isn't it sinful for 
 them to go to church and come back to make game of me 3 
 They bring me tracts, ,too, and I burn 'em." 
 
 I did not know how to deal with this sirigulari creature, 
 humpbacked and ricketty, with a small, swollen, helpless 
 body, and maHoe gleaming oiit of her bright black eyes. 
 
102 <■ MARGARET; OR, 
 
 "You think yourself i handsomej I suppose 3" she said, af-" 
 ter a pause. 
 
 "Do- you think so?" 
 
 "Oh, you fancy youTself' sharp ! "Now you've gone and' 
 tore mar's gownd, and she'll make a piece of work." 
 
 I had unluckily torn the gow-n, which was rotten. What 
 sharp eyes the creature had ! 
 
 "You- think- you're come here to be comfortable, don't 
 you ? Ho ! ho ! ho !" she said, shortly. 
 
 " Why should I not -be comfortable ?" 
 
 " Are you used to be snubbed ? I'll tell you what — our 
 children are little devils; don't I hate the sight ■ of 'em ! 
 Mar cares for nothingbut herself. You should hear our house- 
 maid stuff her up about looking young. She and Matilda^ 
 Jane are always quarreling.- I know why : mother's jeal- 
 ous of her. Then there's Francis James — have you seen 
 him ?" 
 
 "One of the little boys?" 
 
 " Law, I wish' he could hear you ! Francis Janies is thfe 
 biggest man in London, according to his thinking.' Mar 
 likes him for all that, because she thinks him stylish, and 
 he tells her he gets inta^ fashionable, company. Parquar-' 
 rels with him because he won't work, and he quarrels with 
 par because he can't get enough money to spend. Mar 
 helps him to rob^ the till, and some of these days they'll be 
 saying Tony did it ; and I wish they would; I hate Tony." 
 
 "Hush, for heaven's sake !" I said. 
 
 " Oh, you're frightened, are you ? I thought I could 
 frighten you. There's uglier things than me in this house." 
 
 It is needless to pursue the conversation held through the 
 long day with this being, singularly deformed in mind as 
 well as body. Shrewd and observing, and evidently at war 
 with everybody, it was quite horrifying to hsten to her 
 anecdotes of the meanness, the hypocrisy, and the depravity 
 altogether ■ of her family and their acquaintances ; and ill 
 as I was myself inclined to think of the human nature 
 about me, I'found myself instinctively taking up the gaunt- 
 let-in its' defence. 
 
 In my grand-father's home we had always been accustomed 
 to celebrate Christmas as a hoLv time • and I was familiar 
 
PREJUDICE AT HOME. 103 
 
 witli tte festiviti«s peeaJiar to the seasosi la old idays'; but 
 the reality of merry-making, as I witnessed it in Mrs. Brtiwn's 
 house, was sometWag quite new to me. As Twelfth Night 
 occared a few days after my instaldmeist there, .aad as Mrs. 
 Brown had issued iavitations for a juvenile baJl, my settiiig' 
 about teaehing the ehiidren was at present out of the qaes^~ 
 tioB^ Indeed Miss Brown, iadife'eat about mf jwesence 
 when ^e said it, expressed her wondes* at mar bwing them . 
 with, ageveraess in the midst of the holidays. But , Mrs. 
 Biowa knew what sh« was a^Kmt; aad fiadiag, as she 
 expected,' that I oottldsew weJl, a»d t&at I had some taste 
 in fashioaing. dress, foand me iuli employment fi-oia laorn- 
 jng aatii Jaite at aight When I had fiisished turning her 
 ■ciresa, whieh she said was gsod eaoagh for a Jisveaile party^ 
 I had to harry (JMXHagfe some aJteratioss im. the childaren's/ 
 froeks. In the course of theee days I began to wonder how 
 I sheiald ev-w obtain sufficies^ aatbority eves my unruly 
 pupils to d® any good with theaa. They so eWdestly -eonsid- 
 <ered lae ia the light of aa inferior, and took so many iiber- 
 ties with me ait'esidy^ snatcJaing nay work out of my hands, 
 iBuddeotly Jerkiag Eiy chair away whea I attempted to sit 
 ■down,' throwing tea in my face duriBg that meal, and so oa, 
 that I miglxt well <ies{^ii-. My aQQoyanee a&d inefiecjmal 
 rena^onstzances afforded huge delight to Miss Amelia, who 
 declared iJaait has'iag a goveraegs isa. the i«use would be good 
 fun all theyeaa- roraad. 
 
 Oo the BiorniHg of Twelfth-day, as I acknowledged I. vm- 
 ■derstood ironing pretty well, Mrs. Brown' said she shooM 
 take it as a ■" £av«r" if I w<5uld release Mary frosa that worl^.. 
 there being pleety else for her to do. So I descended to a 
 back pai'lor, dark, fi-bm its sibaation, a.tv^ times, a«id now 
 Sighted by gas. I had to pass to asd fro, to fetch my irons 
 from the fire in the kitehen, where three servants and a ehar- 
 nvomaa were feaeily engaged. Through the opeu door of 
 the room I w&s m I heard everything that passed, and I 
 could not b«t naarsfel at the uroisibility of these woman, who 
 kept up an ineeseaat oonversation, literally^ as it seemed to 
 me, about nothing. Presently I heard a shrill scream, amd 
 Mary, the nui'seiBaid, cried out : 
 
1(14 _ MAEGARBT ; OB^ '. 
 
 "Now you leave me alone, Tony; you'd best, or I'll call 
 missis." . , 
 
 "What a fuss the gals make, and where's the use on it?" 
 said a voice I recognized instantly as that of my tormentor 
 at the naeeting. "Don't I know as all the gals likes to be 
 kissed «", 
 
 " Not by such a fool as you," said Mary ; " so keep your 
 hands to yerself." ; . 
 
 ," I sav, Sally," said Tony, " nice gal that new governess, 
 ain't she'?'! • 
 
 I heard the word "hush!" and then a smothered conver- 
 sation was carried on. This discovery, that I was in the 
 same house with so hideous a hypocrite, distressed me 
 exceedingly, especially when I reflected that he might do' 
 me great disservice by telling more about my family than 
 I wished the Browns to know. I did not anticipate any- 
 thing worse, or that I should have any difficulty ; about 
 keeping him at a distance. 
 
 ■I was absorbed by these unpleasant thoughts, when sud- 
 denly I felt two huge hands placed at either side of my face, 
 which was'wrenched round and brought intoclose contact with 
 that of Tony himself, looking more hideous than ever, as 
 there was a malicious grin on. his countenance. In the 
 horror and exasperation of the moment I stviiok him over 
 the mouth with the hot iron. 
 
 " Damn your imperance' !" he exclaimed, retreating at 
 once, and putting his hand to' his mouth. " This is twice 
 you've served me th'at how. Who the devil are you as you 
 mayn't be touched, I should like for to know? Who was 
 turned out of their lodgings 'cause they was a disgrace to 
 the house ? Mind if I don't serve you out." 
 
 "Do what you like," I said, breathless with irritation, 
 " but take yourself out of this room at once, and do not 
 repeat your liberties with me.' Are you going, or must I 
 go?" 
 
 " Law, what a spitfire you are !" said the man, but re- 
 treating .backwards as he spoke. " See if I don't get you 
 under the misletoe to-night." 
 
 He disappeared, and I continued ray work with treaib- 
 liag hands. At the very outset it seemed probable that I 
 
PREJVDICIS «lI home. 105 
 
 Blkquld; either be turned out of the place or be compelled to 
 leave it on my own account. I had not calculated all the 
 miseries of dependence, or dreamed of encountering that of 
 Tvhich I should be ashamed to speak. 
 
 I was kept busily employed all day, and when the compa- 
 ny began to arrive I attended in an anterroom, furnished 
 plentifully with looking-glasses, to assist. There might 
 have been fifty young people in all, and it was rather plea- 
 sant work to take off the outer garments of the little g^rls 
 and boys, and touch up their shining hair, and watch the 
 glee dancing in their bright eyes. I was lingering over one 
 very pretty little girl, whose fair curls swept over her shoul- 
 ders, when Miss Brown called out to me : 
 
 " Get rid of them little bothers as sharp as you can, I 
 want you to help us." 
 
 There was a crowd of girls about my own agej and some 
 older. When the " little bothers" were fairly turned out of 
 the room, my services were, more than ever in request, as 
 tbe young ladies had brought their dresses in band-boxes. 
 I had never before associated with young pepple — if it could 
 be called associating, where none, spcke to me except to ask 
 my assistance — and all this flutter of preparation, and evi- 
 dent ai^xiety about effect, bewildered and surprised ine more 
 than anything that, had come under my observation before. 
 My previous sedentary life and inexperience must be taken 
 into consideration when I say,, that these young girls fre- 
 quently made me blush, indeed, kept my face altogether 
 in a glow, with, what seemed to me very extraordinary 
 boldness. 
 
 " I don't know whether to wear these white roses in my 
 hair, or have it plain,", said the girl whose dress I was fas- 
 tening. " Which would you do ?" 
 
 ." Qh, wear the roses ; they're so nice in your dark hair," 
 Ba.id the girl she addressed. I've got a red geranium." 
 
 " Is thfere anybody worth dressing up for ?" said my 
 young lady. " Who's here ?" 
 
 Miss Brown ran over a string of names, which I perceiv- 
 ed were all masculine. 
 
 " Oh, I'm so glad Henry Smith's here !" said number one, 
 " Isn't he a nice young man ? always so spirity and full of 
 
 5 
 
1061 
 
 fuo. I mean Heary shall kiss me under the misletoe. ; 
 Here, can you arrange' these in my hair I" 
 
 ."For my: part)" saJd another girl, " I admire James Rid- 
 ley ; so gentleman-like, isn't he ?" 
 
 "Oh I 'can?t bearhimj" said a sprightly girl, who had 
 been humming a tune, and seemed incapable of keeping her 
 feet still. " He's so shy." 
 
 " Is: he ?" said' another. " Do introduce me to him ; I 
 like to get hold of a shy young man. It's such fun. Fll 
 brighten him up, see if I don't.'' 
 
 " Is your young man coming. Miss Jakes?" 
 
 " He may come or stop away," said Miss Jakes, tossing . 
 her head. "He's bfeen in the sulks for a week. But if he 
 does come, I'll pay him off; for I intend to flirt desperately 
 with Henry Smith," and in the lightness of her heart she 
 commenced practising a few steps. 
 
 " There, go away, you're a bungler," said the young lady, 
 whose roses came to nothing in my hands. "Do, dear, 
 come and help me." 
 
 There were so many last touches before the young ladies 
 could be satisfied with their appearaces, that a full hour 
 elapsed before I felt myself at liberty to seek Mrs. Brown, 
 and learn what I was to do next. I had been standing all 
 th€ day, and felt very weary, but I had been given to un- 
 derstand that I should be wanted all the evening. 
 
 All the company was assembled in the drawing-room, 
 and I found Mrs. Brown in the usual sitting-room, where 
 tables were spread for tea. I found with her a young man 
 whom I had not seen before, and as I was retreating, she 
 called me back. 
 
 "This is the governess as I told you about," she said. 
 " My son, Miss Marples." 
 
 Mr. Brown, Junior, was taller, than his father, which is 
 not saying a great deal, as the latter gentleman was remark- 
 ably short ; so that I inferred the " bigness" of which Miss 
 Amelia spoke had reference solely to the young man's esti- 
 mate of himself. He had his father's nose on a larger scale ; 
 the same black hair and eyes ; and whiskers of the same 
 hue and an incipient ■moustache, were just visible. H« was 
 dressed elaborately, I "supposed fot the ocoaaon, and wore 
 
PEBjajDtCB : AT KOMB. 1(W 
 
 an . eye^fasBf whick he elevated ia order to- take a --better 
 view of myself, . . 
 
 " Vewy pwapawi" he exeiaimed, meaning my engagfitiient, 
 I suppose. '* I' hope you'll hsive the chiidtea iiJ bettaw 
 audwa; 'Pon my sawl she's .p we tty." 
 
 " Hold your toBgue, Francis James, do!" said his mother.! 
 •"Miss Marples, d© yoii attend to your own business ;, put 
 them spooas i» the saucers,: and fetch the saadwidges and all 
 the things hoff :the sideboard; there's room in the middle 
 «f- the *&&«.■" 
 
 Mrs. Brown, spoke in a sharp, authoritative ■manner, as if 
 «he wished to counteract the possible effects of her son's ad- 
 miration. The id«a was moastrons enough, but I was oblig- 
 ed to entertain it. 
 
 The' two went on talking, as the young ladles had done, 
 reck-oniag me for nothing. 
 
 " I think yoM might have brought one on 'em just for to- 
 night," said Mrs. Biwjwn* "It's too bad.^' 
 
 " My dear imadam, it's impossJWB," said the young man. 
 "If these fellows once got a scent of the shop it would, 
 be all up with me. I don't want to dispawage your com- 
 paay=j but it wosSdn't do;, 'pon my soul." 
 
 "I don't see the use of your spending so much money 
 over your fine tolks, if jou can't ai any on 'em home," said 
 Mrs. Brown. 
 
 " The old boy," observed Mr. Br©wn, Junior, " talks of re- 
 tiring into the country, in which case I may manage to in-- 
 twoduce -some «f the fellows - At present it's out of the. 
 "question. I intend to make myself vewy agweeable to- 
 night, and I think tharfsas much as you can expect fwom 
 me at pwesent" 
 
 "Fm sareyour parll call out at them mustacherfe.'^ 
 
 " He's a queaw old boy ! pewhaips he will, but I cannot 
 be a slave to pwejudioes. I must positively join the ladiea, 
 or they'll think me wiide." 
 
 I iaaght a glance of him as he walked out, holding his- 
 stiff, caMar with both hands and adjusting his head in it.. 
 I wondered if the ladies, really missed him or wanted him. 
 
 " Aifitte young .manr,isa't he I" said Mrs-jBrowois 
 
IBS mabgarbt; or, ' 
 
 I QJ)eiie(i>!nly<Tnouth to say Bomethiiig, but remained si- 
 lent. I bowed my head in assent. 
 
 ,-" He's very, clever, and every way above his station, 
 though that's -nothing to be sneezed at, for his par's goi 
 money," continued Mrs. Brown. "But Francis . James al- 
 lays would keep the best company,-;— Lord Randy, and Sir 
 John Boulder, and Colonel Spanks,; and a lot of them sort 
 of people. He'll be sadly out of his helemet to-night." 
 
 The young man certainly gave me no high! opinion of 
 the company he kept. His cool, easy impudence was at 
 once so offensive and so ridiculous that one did not know 
 wiether to laiigh.or to get angry. I had a pretty clear per- 
 ception of his being altogether beneath contempt. 
 
 Mrs. Brown gave me directions about superintending the> 
 teartaWe. provided for the younger visitors, and then depart- 
 ed in order to collect them. Simultaneously with the 
 young' peojple appeared all the servants with all sorts of 
 viands. Nothing I had as yet seen astonished me mors 
 than the gormandizing qualities of the atoms of humanity 
 over whom I presided. Piles of plum-cake, plain cake,' 
 muffins, tea-cakes, tarts, biscuits, toast, bread and butter, 
 shrimps, ham sandwiches, potted meats, and oceans of tea, 
 disappeared with a rapidity that to me became quite alarm- 
 ing. : One little boy, with his mouthful, declared that he ■ 
 always drank seven cups when he went to a party, and I be*-. 
 lievehe took even more. When all were satisfied and dis- 
 missed (the elder visitors took: tea in the drawing-room), I 
 and Mary sat down, and afterwards helped to clear the 
 things away. 
 
 . I was very busy when one of the young ladies entered 
 from the drawing-room, dragging after her a little boy^ who, . 
 with his hands before his face, appeared to me to be crying, 
 bUt.I soon found he was half chocking himself with a fit of 
 suppressed! laughter. ; ' - ' 
 
 " You wicked little wretch," said his sister, shaking him . 
 violently, " see if I don't tell of you when we get home. I've 
 a good mind to send you home riow. You," she said, ad- 
 dressing -me, " keep hiin here ; L want to punish him." 
 
 The boyisdid not seem to.care much ; he went into a cor- 
 
PBEJtmiOE AT BOMB. 109 
 
 ner, and bad a good laugh by himself. I asked him what 
 had amused him so much. 
 
 - " It's her," he said, pointing towards the drawing-room ; 
 " she's so funny." ■'■■.•■ 
 
 '• He's very naughty," said Mary ; " he's been making 
 game of Miss Melia." • 
 
 " She's like ' Humpty dumpty sat on the wall,' " said the 
 boy. " I shall laugh at her ; — what's she so ugly for then ?" 
 
 I tried to reason with him, to make him understand that 
 she could not help it ; that God might punish him by mak- 
 ing him" also defoi-med ; but he kept on tittering and I 
 could make nothing of him. And little can be made of 
 children whose character, early perverted at home, becomes 
 fixed before they are turned over to those expected to edu- 
 cate them. They are educated already, for the first lessons 
 of life determine the bent of all after-teaching. 
 
 Presently Mrs. Brown came in to ask if the boy would go 
 back and be good,; and he made a half-promise. 
 
 " You'd better come iu now," she said to me, " and you 
 can look after the children. Meely's put me out with com- 
 ing down; I didn't want her to, it's all her par's fault. 
 Now mind, when they 'begin to dance you play the planer;" 
 
 I followed, her into the room. The glaring light, and the 
 crowd, and the noise, confused me. Then the heat was 
 stifling. There were several new arrivals,, men and women, 
 young and" elderly ; there was a deal of shouting, and loud 
 laughter, and clapping of hands, and sprightly conversation, 
 and running to and fro of children ; and in the midst of the 
 general hubbub some one was producing a crashing noise 
 out of the piano. There was a twelfth-cake, and a drawing 
 of characters was going on, that every now and then pro- 
 duced frantic exclamations and much mirth. I^was look- 
 ing out for Amelia, who was seated on a high chair at the 
 extremity of the room, with a table before her, when I was 
 requested to take out two children who were sick. No 
 wonder, eating rich cake, and sucking oranges, and di-ink- 
 ing wine, after such a meal as they had lately made ! 
 
 . I was kept em|)loyed. until at length the folding doors 
 that connected the two rooms were thrown open, and a . 
 clear space was made for dancing. The children's dancing- 
 
110: MAEGiBBT^ OB,- 
 
 master was present with' his violin,: and I 'yras to aoeompany ft 
 him on the piano. Meanwhile I had; had; time jenough tOui 
 lobkaround me and receive certain impressions. It struck 
 me that the elder girls, with their giddiness, 'and aflfectation, 
 and readiness to make advances, were unlike anything I had 
 ever heard or read of; that the young men, shallow, and 
 conceited (as they well might be)j and evidently great in 
 frivolitieis,: were but indifferent samples of the species to • 
 which they belonged ; that the elder men were coarser thaai 
 sec'ined quite proper ; the women strongly giving .to slander, 
 (I- overheard some of them who were gathered into little 
 confidential groups); and that altogether there was an ab- 
 sence of refinement and real good feeling, that, united with 
 the noise and heat, and Iny own weariness, inspired me with 
 sensations bordering upon disgusti If all this time I was 
 unconsciously exalting myself above those around me, I 
 was sufflbiently despised in turn ; for, except that Mr. Brown, 
 Junior, had once approached to ask if I did not find it" vewy 
 wawm," no one had spoken to me since I entered the room. 
 
 I played until a late hour when all the children^ were sent . 
 home ; and then I played on, as the elder visitors had only 
 just commenced in earnest. During a pause, Mr. Brown 
 (who did not make his appeari;nce till the shop was closed) 
 brought me a glass of wine and a biscuit. 
 
 "Ain't you tired?" he said; "let somebody else play a 
 bit, and you have a hop." 
 
 This was an odd remedy for being tired, but I told him I 
 had not learned to dance. 
 
 " Not learned to dance ! Oh, never mind ; you»can jump 
 about to the tune, and that's as much as most on 'em does. 
 I've got a partner for you, — come, nowj get up a bit." 
 
 Mr. Brown meant' to be kind, and I rose up, though with-, 
 out any intention of dancing. To my horror, I beheld the 
 two apprentices, headed by the shopman, Tonyy looking > 
 more hideous and diabolical than ever in his holiday dress. 
 
 "This young. man," said Mr. Brown, bringing the mon- 
 ster forward, " wants you for a partner. Tony,italk to the i 
 young- woman a bit; I want all on you to be jolly to- 
 night" 
 
PBK,SBBIOB AT HOME. lH i 
 
 Thinkingvl dare feay, that he iad done a good deal for-' 
 me, Mt. Brown walked away; 
 
 I turned -to the piano and sat down -again. 
 
 " What a gal you are !" said Tony, leaning ; his arms on 
 the ' instrument, and; approaching i me so closely that I was 
 compelled to rise;again. " Come, now, if you'll be my part- 
 ner I won't say nothing about you knows what.'' 
 
 I could not speak to the man, even to repulse him ; there 
 were no words expressive of the deep disgust I felt, and I ' 
 walked h^tily across the room and seated myself beside the 
 deformed girl. 
 
 " Are you tired ?" I asked. 
 
 " No ; I like- to see 'em. I wish they knew how I hated 
 'em all, fine and handsome as they think theirselves. 
 They're been laughing at me, and I can laugh at them." 
 
 " You should not notice children;" I said; " they don't ' 
 know what they do." 
 
 " Oh, it's not the children,, it's every one of 'em. I see itj 
 though they think me a fool as weU as: humpbacked and 
 ugly. Never you mind." 
 
 " But you are not ugly," I said, " and if you liked you 
 might look handsomer than: any one in this room." 
 
 " What a one you are for gammon !" 
 
 '• Nay, I am quite serious. You might) by thinking kind^ 
 ly of every one, and wearing a bright, pleasant look. You 
 would be so much happier, too." 
 
 " You've got that out of them tracts, and they're all lies. 
 You should see how Mar flies out if anybody oflfe'nds her a 
 bit ; and Matilda Jane, — LOrd, she'd make you stare ! Let 
 me alone about looking pleasantly when I hate everybody. 
 I could scratch their eyes out !" 
 
 I had been preaching, as many do, what I could not my- 
 self practice'. The odious Tony came up and I shrank from 
 him as if he had been something venomous. 
 
 *' I wants Miss Marples to be my partner, and she won't," 
 he said. " Try and persuade her. Miss Meliar." 
 
 " Try yourself," said Amelia. " What do I care about u 
 your partners and you jigging about like fools ? Now they're 
 a beginning it. Law how I do. hate 'em !" 
 
 There was a sudden tumult in the room; which resounded.'' 
 
112 - MARaAKET; OR, ' 
 
 with shrill screams. . The genilemeh had go£the\ ladies un- 
 der the mistletoe, and if the latter /liked it rather than other- 
 wise, they made an odd - sort of demonstration. I remem- 
 bered like threat of the odious man; Tony, and: I shrank 
 further into the corner with a shiver of horror. How this 
 availefi' me nothing, — how I was forcibly dragged forward 
 and kissed by: every man in the room, Tony amongst the 
 rest, I will pass slightly over. When I was at length releas- 
 ed 1 burst into tears. ; . 1 
 
 Jf Law, ifi she ain't a crying !" exclaimed one of the girls. 
 
 " What nonsense !" said several. 
 
 "She wants kissing again," said Mr. Henry Smith, the 
 gTfeatest puppy where all were great, that way, " and pon my 
 honor' if I wasn't out of breath — " :.. ,' ^ 
 
 " Come, come, let's have done .with it," said Mrs. Brown. 
 "And deary me,: Miss, Marples, I'm surprised at your mak- 
 ing a piece of work in my house, as if we didn't know 
 what's ptoper. ' Bless us ! if these young ladies isn't too fine 
 tO-be kissddf yoM don't need to cry; out." 
 
 " What disgusting affectation !" said Miss Brown as she. 
 flounced past me. ; " i ; " ' > ' ■■ 
 
 I had, indeed, only made myself ridiculous ; and my tears, 
 dried up as if my eyes had been balls of lire. I was allowed 
 to sit at the piano again,) and the party broke up at four 
 o'clock in the morning. , n ■, ' 
 
 During another week the children, had a holiday, and I 
 was plentifully supplied with needl'e-work. I had, besides, 
 general instructions, to improve. Miss Brown in music and 
 Frenfah ; but that young lady had a profound contempt for 
 my capacity, and the plan proved a failure. When I at- 
 length commenced with the younger children I found them 
 so deficient' in the commohest-kiads of knowledge that liset 
 about giving them some instruction in, English before I at- 
 tempted French, and asked for ; such books as I requii-ed, 
 arid which I did not find in the hoitee. There was some 
 demur about supplying me. Mrs! Brown did riot 'see the 
 use of wasting so much , time about " grammar, and such 
 like." Arithmetic was very well, but geography might be 
 learned from the newspapers, and she thought history all 
 Btuffi 1 She reminded me over and, over again that she 
 
PREJiroiCI! AT HOME. 113 
 
 wanted the children to learn music and French. However, 
 I had a little of my own way, and I set to in earnest ; and 
 a more refractory or unpromising set of pupils never fell in- 
 to .mortal hands. Accustomed to have their own way, and 
 seeing me treated as a menial, it was impossible to obtain 
 any authority over them. Wanting capacity one way, they 
 made up in another. They were very ingenious at turning 
 everything into ridicule, so that it was impossible to fix their 
 attention seriously for five minutes together. After doing 
 my best, I was compelled to ask Mrs. Brown to interpose 
 with her authority, and then she thought my system must 
 be wrong, as the children had done very well at school. I 
 soon found that I must not entertain any hope of giving 
 satisf^,ction. 
 
 It was trying enough to live entirely upstairs with these 
 children and Miss Amelia, who had conceived a positive dis- 
 like to me for having been such a hypocrite as to pretend 
 not liking to be kissed. Amelia hated hypocrites above 
 everything ; she hated those who submitted to be kissed 
 and liked it, but my affectation had disgusted her as it did 
 Miss Brown. 
 
 I had been in the house about three months when, one 
 evening, I was sent for down stairs. I' found Mr., Mrs., and 
 Miss Brown, and an elderly man in the sitting-room. I was 
 desired to sit down, and Mrs. Brown asked me if I had heard 
 anything about Mr. Chaundy. 
 
 I had not, and said so. 
 
 " He's took to prison for debt, howsomever," said Mrs. 
 Brown. " I'm sure we thought he was quite a gentleman 
 when we let him come here. Do you know anything of 
 his family 1" 
 
 I did not. 
 
 " How long did you know him afore you come here 3" 
 
 " About three weeks." 
 
 " Queer, ain't it ?" said Mr. Brown. 
 
 " I thinks it very queer," saidT Mrs. Brown, " and he 
 knowed nothing of you afore?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 "It's a good job as he didn't borrow money from us," 
 eaid Mr. Brown. 
 
 5* 
 
114 MS-RGARteT^ OB,' 
 
 " I li'ated the sight of hiui " said Miss Brown ; '" he wasn't • 
 lilie a respectable clergyman." 
 
 " No more he was,'' said Mrs. Brown. " He was a odd 
 man,' allays joking with the servants and lowering hisself. 
 I wonder if he was a clergyman after all, or a imposter ?" 
 
 "Oh! he was a 'clergyman," said the visitor; "I had' 
 that from Mr. Fiilton." 
 
 "You can go upstairs, Miss'Mirples;" said Mrs. Brown, 
 
 I'au'giired no good from this: coaversation and ^fg. 
 Brown's manner. On three or four occasions I had been' 
 tortured by Tony's threats to tell all he knew, and I was not 
 sure that he had not told. I abhorred the state of depen- 
 dence that subjected me to this low mailiioe, and that m&,de' 
 it a terror to me. What had I to fear or to be ashamed of 
 after all ; why could I not speak to Mrs. Brown as a Chris- 
 tian • woman, and tell all the truth? How -I warred with 
 myself; how I scorned her, feeling that this was impossible! 
 
 The news of our friend's misfortuhe grieved me deeply. 
 Corapariiig him' with others, I knew that' he was a noble,- 
 warra-^hearted man, and I was just beginning to feel how 
 really friendless we were in the world. I expected Jem on 
 the folfowing day, and I determined to ask leave to visit my 
 grand-father so that I;might learn all the particulars. 
 
 I wanted ' to see my'^rand-father for ■ many reasons. It 
 was a satisfeetioh' to me, even while I wished to remain 
 where I was, if possible, to believe that matters were com- 
 ing to a crisis. My borrowed dignity, of not being the 
 niece of a charwoman, sat too heavily upon me, because it 
 was enforced.' What, after all, did Mi-s. Brown suppose me 
 to be ? POor^ — or I should not -have sought the shelter of 
 her roof. I had not deceived her, for I had been asked no 
 questions : yet Lfelt as if I had made myself liable to a 
 charge of imposition. I was beginning to despise m vself as 
 well as others ; and I thought that my grand-father would 
 agree with me that this was an unwholesome state of feeling, 
 that should be remedied at any price. 
 
 Letters had passed between us, and T knew that they 
 were in other lodgings, and that my grand-father continued 
 to obtain work.' I knew, too, that' Mr. Ohaundy frequently 
 visited them, and felt how much they would miss him.- The 
 
PKEJBMCK' Ar BOMB. 115 
 
 Browns, with their many friends, most probably did not 
 possess an individual, one whose misfortunes or absence 
 would have caused thtem regret. 
 
 And from what I had already observed, I could not help 
 feeling that deep and strong affections were not common in 
 the world. A great deal of sentiment that sounds very well, 
 and that is very well in itself, has been written on the love 
 of mother's ; but ten to one that the reading of it brings be- 
 fore any experienced person such a host of unmistakeably 
 real mothers of the Mrs. Brown class; intriguing heartlessly 
 for sons or daughters, and by the example and constant in- 
 grafting of selfishness' desecrating- all that might have been 
 sacred between them, and hardening all that ought to have 
 been malleablefor good, that the attractive ideal ' glimmers 
 in the distance like a lone star. And if the love, even of 
 mothers, so far from being always a beautiful and a holy 
 thingy is frequently made to look' ugly and revoltiilg, it is 
 not wonderful that amongst brothers and sisters indifference 
 should grow up into hatred, where unruly passions and self- 
 interest divide them frbm the beginning. What most of 
 the friendships and more serious after-connections of life 
 come to under such circumstances, is ■ best known to the 
 millions who make up the population of this Christian land. 
 I asked leave of a few hours' absence with some fear of a re- 
 fusal, because there was not a minute in the day during 
 which I had n6t plenty to do. Mrs. Brown, however, gave 
 her consent very readily. 
 
 " O yes, you may go, certingly. Miss Marples. I was just 
 going to tell you — leastways, I was to-morrow, when your 
 month's up — that I must give you notice, as you don't qui'e 
 suit as I expected. You can let your grand-father know, 
 as I intend to behave handsome and allow you a month's 
 notice," 
 
 This was saving me much trouble, though it' was not ex- 
 actly what I wanted. When I considered, however, that 
 what with their rebellious habits, and want of capacity, and 
 d.lmost entire ignorance of everything else, it would be a 
 long time before I could bring the young Browns forward 
 in music and French, I could only feel that it was for the 
 best. I was beginning, too, to have more confidence in my- 
 
116 aAS.OASBT', OB, 
 
 self; apd 1 had a month before me to look out for an- 
 other situation. : ;( - , , . 
 
 On the whole, I felt lighter, in heart than I had done for 
 a long time. ■ On the following morning, when I was told 
 that some one wanted me, I hurried down staits, expecting 
 to see Jem ; but instead of him, I found a little girl of about 
 ten years old. X asked her what had become of him. 
 
 " He's gone with the mister," she replied. 
 
 I asked her to wait till I was ready, and then to show me 
 where my grand-father lived. She said she lived in the same 
 house in Brook's Court, and I found it a close, unwholesome 
 place, with tall, dingy houses, illed from basement to roof 
 with lodgers. 
 
 I found my grand-father and Aunt Betsy, in a back room 
 on the second floor, to which was added a large closet that 
 held a bed. Iti was altogether a falling off from Mrs. Dent's; 
 rooms ; and not having seen either of my relations for so long 
 a time, I was struck by a painful alteration in their appear- 
 ance. My Aunt's complexion had i become sallow, and. she 
 was muQh thinner ; and there was a wan, shadowy look 
 about my grand-father that wrung my heart. I found him 
 busily writing, and one of his favorite books lay on the ta- 
 ble beside him : it was open ; and when I glanced at the 
 page my eye fell on these lines of Cotton's " Eg^tirement ; — " 
 
 " Good God ! how sweet are all things her© 1 
 How beautiful the fields .ppear 1 
 
 How cipanly do we feed and lie ! 
 Lord! what good hours do. we keep I 
 How quietly we Sleep'! ^ 
 
 What .peace, what unanimity ! 
 ' « How iniloc'ent from the lewd tashion 
 Is all our business, ail our recreation !" 
 
 The dear, good old man ! had he been trying to realise a 
 dream of his old home, with its quietness, its cleanline.ss, its 
 pure air and rural sightsj — ^things ^he had loved so well ? I 
 spoke qalmly, in spite the swelling of my heart, when we 
 sat down together. Jem had brought the news of Mr. 
 Chaundy's misfortune only a few days . previously, and had 
 been with him ever since. For perhaps the first time in 
 his life, my grand-father regretted that he had not money. 
 
PRBJUDICS AT HOMB. 117 
 
 "It would have, been a pleasure to have helped so kind a 
 friend," he said; " we' must pray for him." 
 
 I told my own story, giving only the principal cause of 
 my dismissal, — my not being able to impart French and 
 music to the young people as if by magic. 
 
 " Well, well, you cannot do impossibilities," said my 
 grand-father. " We must go to the register-office again." 
 
 I asked if we could not go that day, as I did not 
 know when I could get out again, and my grand-father 
 consented. Then we had a long talk about a hundred 
 different matters; and he, showed mp the money — three 
 pounds — which I had sent by Jem, and which he said he 
 was saving for me. It was a satisfaction to know that he 
 had not yet been, compelled, to make use of it, and I hoped 
 to add to, instead of taking it away. 
 
 After. dinner, we proceeded to the, register-office, situated 
 somewhere in the city. In a very crowded thoroughfare 
 we wanted to cross the street, and were compelled to wait 
 until several vehicles, apparently jammed together, went 
 past. , There was some quarrelling amongst the drivers. 
 
 "iTake that fellow's number, will you ?" called out an im- 
 perious voice. " He blocks up the way on purpose." 
 
 ,, I looked in the direijition pf the speaker. He was seated 
 in a handsome cab, with a servant in livery at his side. 
 There was no mistaking the martial figure ; the clear, 
 bronze, complexion; the eagle eyes; the. black hair, and 
 moustache curling over the upper lip ; the proud disdainful 
 look that I had encountered only once before : — it was Col- 
 onel Leigh. 
 
 I gazed at him steadily and determinedly. My eyes, too, 
 could flash back disdain and defiance, though they could 
 not express the intense loathing with which, in my inmost- 
 ;'soul, I regarded that man. 
 
 " Now, then ! out of the way there !" he exclaimed. 
 
 Just before the, whip fell, he looked, full in my upturned 
 face. It was evident that , he recognised me, for he made 
 an indecisive movement, pausing for a second; and then 
 the heavy frown, gathered upon his, face: — he lashed the 
 horse savagely, and passed from my sight. 
 
 For this my aunt had brought us tpgether that day — 
 
118 MAftGAllET; OB, 
 
 that we might knOw one another' if we met in the Vorld. 
 To what purpose ? If my grand-father saw him, he did not 
 mention the subject, nor did I. "We arrived at the register- 
 omoe, and stated our business. 
 
 "Are you the young lady that called on Mrs. Wilton in 
 Wimpole Street?" asked the man. 
 
 I told him I was. 
 
 "Then," he said, " she wants to see you' again ; you may 
 call any morning at the same time." 
 
 We considered this an extraordinary piece of good for- 
 tune, arid walked home rather gaily. I was particularly 
 gratified, because Mrs. Wilton understood I had a difficulty 
 about obtaining a character, and seemed inclined to 
 pass' it over; but when we arrived at home, 'my grand-father 
 observed that I could at least obtain a character for good 
 conduct from Mrs. Brown, — she had nothing to say against 
 me that way. 
 
 I, however, had a fixed notion that Mrs. Brown's testimo- 
 ny any way was not desirable. I felt sure that she was dis- 
 missing me as a disreputable person,' and one who-had been , 
 palmed upon her under false f)retences. It seemed clear to 
 me that she had come to a knowledge of my " low connex- 
 ions and bringings up," as Tony 'had it; and if this was 
 sufficient to drive me out of her house, I could scarcely be 
 considered respectable enough to enter Mrs. Wilton's. 
 
 In the course of the afternoon, Jem came in. I was sur- 
 prised and pleased, too, to see him wear so bright a lodk. 
 'My grand-father asked him how Mr. Chaundy was. 
 
 " Oh, he's quite right," said Jem. " He told me to come 
 down an' see if I coiild help you ; an' if you'd come an' see 
 him he'd be glad." 
 ' "That I will, certainly," said my grand-father. 
 
 " It must have grieved you to see Mr. Chaundy in sudh 
 trouble," said Aunt Betsy. 
 
 " Lor' bless you, no,"- said Jem. " If they'd made a bish- 
 op on him I might a broken my heart, an' nobody to care. 
 It's all for his good ; that's where I take it. Trouble keeps 
 his heart in the right place, an' mine too. When I go into 
 that blessed Queeh'sBench, you should see how he brightens 
 up. "Jem,' says he, 'I don't know what I should do with- 
 
PBBJUDICB AT HOME. 119 
 
 out you, Jem.' That's what I call beiog alive. Do you 
 think he'd say that to me if they'd a put him in a palace? 
 •By jingo!'" 
 
 "A little selfishness about that, though, eh, Jem^'?" said 
 my grand-father, smiling. " Well, we get on in this world 
 some way." 
 
 He asked Jem if he knew whether Mr. Chaundy was likely 
 to obtain his freedom soon ; and Jem, apparently scouting 
 the idea, said he thought not. What should he for? 
 "There was good living at the Bench altogether : he didn't 
 see, for his part, how anybody could die there. 
 
 And then Jem looked in the place where the coals and 
 wood where kept, and finding the stock low, rose up for the 
 ■purpose of replenishing it. 
 
 " Any more orders ?" he asked. 
 
 "You are a handy fellow, and a willing one, Jem," said 
 my grandrfather ; " but we must not impose upon your 
 good nature all along in this way. How are you to live if 
 you work gratis, as you do lor us ? You must allow us to 
 pay you something — it is only right." 
 
 " Don't you say nothin' about that 'ere;" said Jem. " How 
 am I to lire? Loi-' bless you, I fatten amazin' among kind- 
 spoken people. I live up here, an' I live down yonder at 
 "the Bench. It's jolly living at the Bench. I've got flesh 
 since Mr. Chaundy was took." 
 
 Poor Jem seemed to live on his philosophy, which is more 
 than wiser men have been able to do. His constant good 
 will and eagerness to oblige certainly had the desired effect 
 of drawing us towards him. 
 
 During his absence my grand-father wrote a letter to Mr. 
 Chaundy, which he afterwards gave him to deliver ; and 
 then, in order to save my grand-father's time, Jem insisted 
 upon seeing me back to Mrs. Brown's. 
 
 Jem's simplicity and singleness of heart, and perfect reli- 
 ance on the good faith established between us, were con- 
 spicuous in this offer. It happily never occurred to his 
 , honest head that I might object to such a chaperon in broad 
 day-light, respectable tiiough he was, and evidently proud 
 of his charge, and entertaining beyond all this, as he walked 
 at my side, an idea that something preoious-to~ himself, and 
 
120 maroarkt; .OK, 
 
 nothing to that dense, driving crowd, linked together. Thii? 
 was the impression upon me of his manner altogether, and i 
 was right. Yet what a forlorn object he was to be looked 
 upon by those who did not look close enough ; and who 
 would think of doing that ? Dressed in ragged clothes that 
 had never fitted him, in patched, dirty boots, twisted into 
 odd shapes, ; without a hat, for he never wore one, and with 
 his grizzled hair floating abput his singularly weather-beaten 
 face. I thought of that other man, from whom I had a 
 passing glance of repulse earlier in the day, and of the dif- 
 ference betwixt the two to me and to the world. If there 
 was a God who noted, these things, how stood each of them 
 with Him 3 Perhaps, even whilst I felt my faith shaken, 
 this was His way of teaching me to look forward to that 
 " great day of the Lord." Well, I should see. 
 
 "There's not a many,'' said Jem, in allusion to my dis- 
 missal from Mrs. Brown's, " there's not a many as lights 
 on the right sort at first. Lor' bless you ! look at me — never 
 meji with a kind-spoken individual till I see Mr. Chaundy. 
 I knowed them folks wouldn't do ; but you'll meet the 
 right at last, not a doubt on it." 
 
 "After waiting as long as you did, I suppose, Jem," I 
 said, bitterly., 
 
 " It don't^eem so long when its over," said Jem. " Noth- 
 in' of the sort ; an' then, when you meets with this here 
 kind, you- seem, to have known 'em all your life. That 
 makes up, you see." • 
 
 This was an odd kind of encouragement, and I managed 
 differently, if not better, for myself I did not care about 
 meeting with kind people ; I only craved the power of defend- 
 ing myself against the warld en masse. There was a stern 
 determination in my, spirit when I contemplated this possible 
 long life of cheerless and abject slavery. It was not my 
 fault if I was not constituted to bear it, and at the worst I 
 possessed the power of releasing myself. 
 
 Brought up as I had been, it. was odd that with, all my 
 restless energy, and pride, and impatience of control, I could 
 set myself up in judgment, and reason and decide so coolly 
 as I.did. Odd that the long teachings of my grand-father 
 should be, so suddenly neutralized by the opinions of Unela 
 
PREJUDICE AT HOME. 121 
 
 Stephen, and the first lesson taught me by the injustice of 
 the world. I felt all this at the time. ' I cannot help it, 
 I said in self-defence ; I can battle rather than endure ; and 
 who shall teach me that it is wrong to war with evil ? 
 
 I had a new favor to ask Mrs. Brown, — Cleave to call on 
 Mrs. Wilton. I made the request that night, and she seem- 
 ed at once to be incredulous, and to be annoyed at the idea, 
 of my so readily obtaining another place. 
 
 " Why you don't mean to say as you've had time to look 
 for «noth» sitiwation ?" 
 
 I explained that I had seen Mrs. Wilton some months 
 ago, and that she wished rne to call upon her again. 
 
 " Oh ! you're very fortunate, I think," said Mrs. Brown. 
 *' As for giving you a chariter, I don't know what to say, 
 I'm sure ; such things as has come to my knowledge." 
 
 " I believe I shall not require you to give me a oharaeter," 
 I replied. 
 
 " Good gracious, Miss Marples ! don't shout like that ift 
 my house ! You fairly made me start. There's no call for 
 you to be imperent." 
 
 I said I had no wish to be impertineat, and did not 
 know that I had been. 
 
 " You must understand," said Mrs. Brown, " that if Fm to 
 pay you for the next month, I can't do with you going out 
 every day to look after places." 
 
 I assured her that I should not trouble her about going 
 out again,; and giving a reluctant consent, she dismissed 
 me. 
 
 On ike following morning my grand-father again accom- 
 panied me to Wimpole Street. All night I had been think' 
 ing that Mrs. Wilton must be possessed of some liberality 
 of feeling, or she would not have sent for me again. Upon 
 this presumed liberality I determined to throw myself, by 
 telling her exactly how we were situated in London, and 
 what reason I had for believing that Mrs. Brown would not 
 recommend me. I had some reliance on the French lady, 
 too, if she chanced to be there. I knew that in France 
 governesses were trained from the humblest classes, and that 
 their origin was no detriment to their advancement-. I tol|i 
 
122 MARGARET; OR, 
 
 my grand-father all this, and he approved of what I was 
 about to do. I found Mrs. "Wilton alone. 
 
 " O, you have been informed, I suppose, that I wished to 
 Bce you again," she said. " The fact is, I have met with so 
 much selfishness avaongst those from whom I had a right to 
 expect something better, that in very despair I am compel- 
 led to turn to less promising subjects. I think I under- 
 stood, from our last conversation, that you were illegiti- 
 mate 3" 
 
 The blood rushed to my face as I inclined my head in 
 assent. 
 
 " Is your father a gentleman f 
 
 " By birth and education he should have been one," I 
 replied. 
 
 " And he takes no notice of you ?" 
 
 " My grand-father has never troubled him, and I am sure 
 I never shall," I replied. " I was educated in the hope that 
 1 should be able to earn my own living." 
 
 " That's quite proper," she said. " Now, I don't wish to 
 hurt your feelings, but it is necessary I should understand a 
 little about you; "What have yoH been doing since I saw 
 you last ?" 
 
 I gave her a full account of my engagement with Mrs. 
 Brown : I told her what ray grand-father was doing, what 
 Aunt Betsy had been reduced to do, and my bad odor with 
 Mrs. Brown in consequence. Beyond this otgection to my 
 ■low connections and to my method of teaching the children 
 I believe Mrs. Brown could say nothing against me. 
 
 " If I conclude to engage you," said Mrs. Wilton, when 
 she had heard roe to the end, " you will perceive that I waive 
 some disadvantages. As you are situated a permanent hom« 
 will be a good thing for you. And as you seem well-behav- 
 ed and competent to teach, I am willing to try if we can 
 get on together. As to the huckster's wife, I shall not think 
 of asking a recommendation from her. When do you leave 
 her ?" 
 
 " A month to-day." 
 
 "Then, in the meantime I should like to see your grand- 
 father. It will be proper to let him know the terms upon 
 which I receive you." 
 
PREJUDICE AT HOME. 123 
 
 I told her that my grand-father had acoompanied me and 
 was then waiting for me below. 
 
 "0, very well," she said, and ringing the bell desired that 
 he might be shown up. 
 
 My grand-father was quite a gentlemanly as well as a 
 venerable looking old man. I felt proud of him as he ad- 
 vanced and saluted Mrs. Wilton with the natural courtesy 
 that implied respect without servility. I felt sure that Mrs. 
 Wilton was favorably impressed by his appearance. 
 
 "Sit down, sir," she said, pointing to a chair. "I have 
 been talking to your grand-daughter, and I have some hopes 
 that she will suit me. With your permission, I presume, 
 she has told me how she is situated ; and I have no doubt 
 you will see the advantage of her having a comfortable and 
 happy home. This I can offer, and will continue to her if 
 she gives satisfaction, and I trust she will." 
 
 " She has always been a dear, good child," said my grand- 
 father, surveying me with tears in his eyes. " I can answer 
 for her doing her best ; and for her remembering with gra- 
 titude that you have overlooked some unfavorable circum- 
 stances that might have weighed against her with others.^ — 
 She is friendless in the world, and quite aware that her future 
 welfare depends upon her own good conduct. I can trast 
 her without fear." 
 
 " Well ! upon my word, I'm quite inclined to trust her," 
 said Mrs. Wilton. " Then we seem to understand each other. 
 I overlook some things, as you say, in the hope that your 
 grand-daughter will be satisfied with my offer of a comfor- 
 table home. Then this is settled. At the end of the month 
 I shall expect you, Miss Marples." 
 
 We rose and took leave. I don't know how it happened 
 that it never occurred to either of us that nothing had been 
 said about any salary. Such was the fact, however. My 
 grand-father especially was elated ; he considered my pres- 
 ent engagement as a great step forward, and eulogised Mrs. 
 Wilton's, liberality in dispensing with a recommendation 
 from others. For my part, too, I felt grateful to her ; and 
 the prospect of being amongst refined people gratified me 
 more than anything else. 
 
 During the remainder of my time at Mrs. Brown's, I 
 
■124: MARGARET ; OB, 
 
 found cause to rejoice still more in the prospect of getting 
 away. Frequent quarrels witli Mr. Brown on their son's 
 account soured her temper so that she quarrelled with every 
 thing and everyhody ; and these family disagreements 
 brought more prominently forward the unamiable traits in 
 the characters of Miss Brown and Amelia. As to Tony, hay- 
 ing fulfilled his mission with regard to me, he seemed in- 
 clined to leave me to myself. 
 
 I managed to part from this family quietly, though eveiiy 
 member of it (I dp not include the aristocratic Francis 
 James), took some pains to let me see they were glad to be 
 rid of me. I remained a few days with my grand-father 
 and Aunt Betsey, mending and replenishing my clothes ; 
 and in this way two out of my four pounds, disappeared. 
 Jem came whilst I was there, and he still continued to speak 
 of Mr. Chaundy with great glee. My grand-father, how- 
 ever, gave a different account of him. 
 
 " He bears his troubles like a man," he said, " but he is evi- 
 dently fretting himself to-death. It is quite painful to hear 
 him speak of relations who could help him and won't. — 
 Then he is becoming very stout without having any whole^ 
 some flesh upon him ; he smokes all day long and eats noth- 
 ing, and if he remains in yonder confined place, I am sure 
 he will die." 
 
 I had the same thoijght about my grand-father and the 
 close unwholesome atmosphere in which he lived. Every 
 time I saw him he seemed to be more wan and shadowy ; 
 his gait more feeble, so that I gave up all hope of realizing 
 the first wish of my heart, which had been to make his last 
 days happy. If I resigned this cherished expectation with 
 a pang,' it is no wonder that I dwelt with added bitterness 
 upon the conduct of those who had labored to crush him 
 down for well-doing, and who had succeeded but too well. 
 The God in whom he trusted for help stood afar off; no one 
 sorrow or indignity was to be spared him, and I, how could 
 I hope a better fate for myself, deserving far less as I did ? 
 The ice about my heart would not thaw, but I possessed even 
 more of indomitable resolution. I do not know what it was 
 that made me long for the quicker passing of time, seeing 
 that I only expected from time that it would bring forth more 
 
PKHTODICE AT HOME. 125 
 
 evill The slow progress of days and months was^ howevery 
 a great weariness to me ; I was impatient without expecta- 
 tion, because the aspirations within me had as yet taken no 
 shape. 
 
 GHAPTER Vn. 
 
 I ENTERED upon my duties at Mrs; Wilton's and' foiJnd 
 some reason to be satisfied. She treated me with considera- 
 tion, and the children, who were almost too well' behaved, 
 rendered me ready obedience. When I say tha* Mrs. Wil- 
 ton treated me considerately, I mean that she always ad- 
 dressed me politely, if not kindly, and that went a great 
 way with me. In other respects I dare say there was much 
 that a more fastidious or less dependent person than myself 
 would have objected to. The Wiltons had altogether the 
 appearance of people living beyond their means, by striving 
 to make a great show with little. The servants considered 
 them mean and never stopped long, and little comfort was 
 provided for any one. There were seven children and one 
 nurse-maid, so that I had to take part of her duties, and 
 one that fell entirely upon me was to fashion the children's 
 clothes out of Mrs; Wilton's old ones. Then we were badly 
 lodged^ crowding together with the children, and fed only 
 meagrely. As I had never lived luxuriously, nor seen much 
 of what is called pleasure, as, too, I had no objection to 
 hard work, I did not feel inclined to murmur, except gene- 
 rally at fate, for allotting to me a life uncongenial from its 
 monotony, and dependence, and obscurity. Mrs. Wilton 
 was a gay woman, with a crowd of fine acquaintances who 
 seemed to take her a good deal from home. Her husband, 
 I learned, was a city merchant. I sonietimes caught a 
 glimpse of him, and thought he had a very care-wom, 
 down-cast look. I often fancied that he could not feel very 
 happy in the home from which his wife was so frequently 
 absent, leaving him to dine alone, and go out or pass the 
 evening, by himself.. I began,, too, after a lapse of soma 
 
126 ■ maegaeet; ob, 
 
 months, to consider my own aflFairs ; to wonder whether 
 Mrs. Wilton really meant to give nie any salary, and what 
 I should do if she did not. I had poor accounts from Aunt 
 Betsy of my grand-father, whose eyes began to fail him so 
 that he could no longer write quickly, or well enough to 
 give satisfaction. This was a terrible blow to all of us, as 
 we could only anticipate that he would become still more 
 disabled. I had not the confidence in Mrs. Wilton that 
 would have led me to speak to her of this calamity with 
 the hope that she would pay me something in consequence. 
 I dreaded offending her and being sent back,- a- burden 
 upon those who were already poor enough ; and yet it was 
 almost as bad to remain where I was with the conscious- 
 ness of being unable to help them. I determined, at all 
 events to ask leave to visit them, and then I could ask my 
 grand-father what he thought it proper for me to do. 
 
 I had been with Mrs. Wilton nearly five months, and as 
 she allowed her children no summer holiday, I had had 
 none. I thought she would not consider it unreasonable 
 that I wished to go home for a day. 
 
 " It is quite impossible to spare you to-morrow. Miss Mar- 
 pies," she said in reply to my request ; " or indeed any day 
 this week. We will see about it next week. But I mean 
 to give you a treat, and Mary Jane and Raymond too. To- 
 morrow I shall take you to a meeting of the Anti-Slavery As- 
 sociation. It will do you all good to understand what priv- 
 ileges you enjoy in this free and happy country ; how favor- 
 ed you are above thousands of your fellow creatures who 
 are frightfully oppressed in other lands, because they have a 
 dark skin. Oh, I think it quite shocking, and that it is es- 
 pecially the duty of people with families to set their faces 
 against such a system. There will be very distinguished 
 people there, too, and it will be quite a grand sight." 
 
 " Will papa go ?" asked Raymond, a boy eleven years 
 old. 
 
 " O no ! papa has his business to attend to and must not 
 be disturbed." 
 
 , And, indeed, Mr. Wilton, who had the dull look that " all 
 work and no play" gives to a man, never seemed to be con- 
 sidered in his wife's schemes or recreation. It was very 
 
PREJGDICE AT HOUB. 127 
 
 rarely tkat she thought of the children in that way ; and 
 newr having been spoilt, but rather severely kept down, all 
 of them had something of the quiet manner and- general 
 listleisness of their father. This was particularly the case 
 with the two eldest. All were obedient without displaying 
 any alacrity, and all were deficiant in the buoyant spirit of 
 childhood and youth, down to the baby, who tumbled about 
 amongst us and got on as well as it could. 
 
 Neither Mary Jane, the eldest, nor Eaymond, seemed to 
 think more of this treat than I did ; however, we all pre- 
 pared to go on the following day. Mrs. Wilton, who had 
 no carriage of her own, manoeuvred pretty successfully to 
 get the use of those of her acquaintances, and on this occa- 
 sion she contrived to distribute us aaiongst three parties, so 
 that we set off in grand style. I forget the name of the 
 building at which we alighted. We walked up a broad 
 staircase and entered an immense hall, in which was a gal- 
 lery. The place was crowded to excess, even when we en- 
 " tered, and many had not yet arrived. Many distinguished 
 people, as Mrs. Wilton had said, seemed to be there. "I had 
 never before seen such a waving of feathers, and glistening 
 of silks, and fluttering of gauzes. These seemed to me the 
 right sort of people to understand and appreciate the priv- 
 ileges they enjoyed in this free and happy country. As for 
 me, my refractory spirit was at work to consider what was 
 the particular privilege for which I was individually requir- 
 ed to be thankful. The universal privilege, to labor, had 
 hitherto proved very unproductive to myself, and I was la- 
 mentably ignorant of any other for which I stood indebted 
 to the land of my birth. Perhaps it was a great matter for 
 such as I was to be allowed to bask in the light of those dis- 
 tinguished countenances, whose excess of radience only 
 served to show more distinctly the realities about myself; to 
 gaze upon that splendor, one of the glories of the land, call- 
 ed forth purposely to blazon the Christian meekness, the be-» 
 nevolent sea), that gave to the poor negro so august a band 
 of sisters and brothers. 
 
 But outward show made little impression upon me. In 
 thought, I tore down the gay trappings and stripped that 
 gorgeously attired assembly to the heart's core, and wonder- 
 
128 MARGARET ; 0R> 
 
 e^ how much would be left to get up another exhibition if : 
 a swift and sudden desolation were to come and annihilate 
 all that was not genuine around me. That much was spu- 
 rious was evident enough in the manner of all. Taking my 
 ideas of Christian courtesy from books rather than men, the 
 excessive- politeness of polite people amongst themselvea. 
 struck me as beiUg at once vulgar and hollow. I thought ■ 
 so on that day, when I witnessed so much cringing and 
 bowing, accompanied by an idiotic sort of smirk on the 
 countenances of the men : so much afiectation, and flutter- 
 ing about, and ready smiling, and majestic sweeping of 
 pl'umed heads amongst the women. A very important-look- 
 ing, middle-aged gentleman^ huriying past me before I had 
 yet found a seat, gave me a sudden push that sent me two 
 or three paces foreward, and a card which I had' in my hand 
 fell to the floor. He turned round with an impatient glance 
 that lighted upon me and the card too, and then hurried oik 
 He had- evidently comprehended in an instant of time that 
 I did not belong to that grade of society to which his at- 
 tentions were exclusively due, therefore he <^ered no apol- 
 t^y, and left me to pick up the card. I set my foot upon 
 it ; and from that pedestal, with the thoughts that were then 
 upon me, I could have uttered more startling ti'uths than 
 met my ear through the day ; for there was nothing so mon- 
 strous in the fact of bad men boldly persevering 'in- an evil 
 curse, as appeared in the hoiirly contradictions practised by 
 those pretending to abound in Christian love, and humility, 
 and charity ; practised, too, in broad daylight, as a matter of 
 course, and commented upon by none, unless by some such 
 insignificant observer as myself, whose private opinion went 
 for nothing, and whose aggrieved feeling stood no chance of 
 notice from the world. 
 
 After placing myself and the children in our seats, Mrs. 
 Wilton bent down and whispered : — 
 
 " You will remain where you are until I come to yon ; I 
 shall sit at some distance. There will be a collection. Miss 
 Marples ; you will give your mite, and the children will 
 give their mites. It is really a blessed privilege to be allow- 
 ed to do something in such a cause." 
 
 This privilege, which took the shape of an obliga>tion, 
 
pkejodIce at HoiSu:. 12& 
 
 filled me with dismay. I had a small purse in my pocket 
 contaifliag four shillings out of the five given mie by my 
 grand-father for pocket-money. I had dreaded spending a- 
 penny more than was necessal-y, and now, how much was I 
 to part with in this grand place, arid for so stupendous an 
 object as the emancipation of a whole race of people? 
 
 If those who are personally free from real wants and 
 cares, are incapable of feeling otherwise than superficially 
 for actual distress and oppression, others may make light of 
 it by comparison with their own need and sorrow. I was, 
 perhaps, as capable of sympathizing with the down-trodden 
 negroes as any there, yet I could not avoid feeling that I 
 I'ather stood in need of help for myself, than of being called 
 upon' to help any. Mine seemed the worse case, too, because 
 as an inhabitant of this free and happy country, I stood no' 
 chance of having my wants recognized or cared for. 
 
 A tall, thin man, dressed in black, ascended a platform ' 
 atid commenced an address. He held a white pocket-hand- 
 kerchief in his right hand, which he flourished and occa- 
 sionally applied to his eyes, and I saw that' others followed 
 his example. He had' himself seen much of the negro race 
 in different parts of the world, and he certainly entered in- 
 to a long detail of horrors. His discourse created a great 
 sensation, accompainied by a variety of exclamations ; and 
 his appeals to the people of England were greeted with 
 bursts of applause. I was not so readily moved to enthusi- 
 asrn. I could not help thinking that, except in the sale and 
 separation of bodies, there was not much difference in the 
 kind of oppression that may be and is exercised everywhere. 
 Even here, affections may be crushed out and down ; souls 
 bartered', outraged, maddened — or pushed aside as the most 
 worthless, of all cominodities, and here, too, effort maybe 
 rendered availless. I thought no more of this, as speaker 
 after speaker rose up, and the sensation around me defepened. 
 One gentleman, of whom a lady near me said, " That's Lord 
 Oolviri," called especially upon the higher classes, whose sen- 
 sibihties were refined by education and habit, to set a noble' 
 example to the country at large by a unanimous expression 
 of their abhorrence of the system of slavery, and of their 
 sympathy with the oppressed; " And as this appeal of ours 
 
 6 
 
130 MARGARET ; OR, 
 
 is intimately connected with the labors of our missionaries," 
 he continued, " I shall now resign the subject to abler hands ; 
 to one whose whole life has been a labor of love, devoted to 
 this cause above all others. And what friend of the negro 
 has not heard his name ? What enemy of slavery has not 
 had his voice borne to him by many winds, thundering forth 
 the anathemas of the Gospel against the oppressions of earth ? 
 "Who amongst you does not know him, personally or by re- 
 port for his good works go before him, and his flock call 
 him ' blessed V I need scarcely add that I allude to the 
 good, the pious, the venerable Thomas Selby, dean of ," 
 
 A loud burst of applause greeted the name, and it rose to 
 an uproar when the dean himself appeared upon the plat- 
 form. And a very venerable and good old man he did look, 
 with his pale, thin face, and white hair, and half-closed eyes ; 
 and very meekly he seemed to bear his honors as he stood 
 slightly inclining his head, and with his hands crossed upon 
 his bosom. To what purpose-did the quickened blood in my 
 heart rise up against this man, whom thousands were eager 
 to honor ? Who, in that vast assembly would have cared 
 for- me, or what I considered my wrongs ? Was there one 
 that would not have defended him, and said that he had 
 done right ? No, I believe not. For it is true that in Eng- 
 land there is that worst species of slavery which originates 
 in a belief that from poverty can proceed no good thing, 
 and that wealth and rank can commit no evil. This is the 
 universal creed, whatever else is preached, and in spite of 
 noisy declamation to the contrary, — ^in spite, too, of the free 
 and honest efforts of independent and liberal-minded men to 
 introduce something better. It is that which a nation prac- 
 tises in its daily life, not that which it declaims about, that 
 influences the heart and mind of a people. 
 
 I, who knew how proudly the dean could bear himself"; I, 
 who had never obtained a passing glance from him, though 
 he had often swept close past me in his priestly garments ; 
 how could I help' marvelling at the deep humility with 
 which he confessed his unworthiness before that brilliant 
 company ; at the benignant sweetness of his countenance as 
 he turned from side to side, as if bestowing a mental bene- 
 diction upon the whole human race ? How could even I 
 
FRBJODICB AT HOME. 131 
 
 suspect him of harboring pride in his heart ? How resolute- 
 ly he disclaimed all praise for what he had done ! How 
 his own short-comings stared him in the face when he sud- 
 denly found himself famous through having performed a 
 very small part of a large duty ! He was altogether weak, 
 he said ; only strong in this — having a good cause and de- 
 termination to do his best for the future. Then he spoke 
 of the missions, and, notwithstanding his previous disclaimer, 
 alluded to the part he had taken throughout a long life in 
 promoting them. When he finally called upon those as- 
 sembled to contribute largely for the purposes that had 
 been specified, there was another thunder of applause that 
 stunned me, and then there was a jingling of money upon 
 plates, and I thought of my four shillings and wondered what 
 I should do, 
 
 I did not wonder long. A gentleman collector approach- 
 ed where I was sitting. His erect figure, and handsome 
 face, with its proud eyes and haughty lip, were always pre- 
 sent with me. And now we had met again, and Colonel 
 Leigh handed the plate, nearly filled with gold, to the 
 young Wiltons, who placed some silver on it. It lingered 
 before me, I had taken two shillings from my purse, but I 
 grasped them tightly in my right hand, and placed my open 
 left hand for an instant, palm upwards, upon the plate. I 
 did not consider what any one else might think ; at the mo- 
 ment, I thought only of him. He looked down into my 
 upturned face, and an almost imperceptible expression of 
 annoyance, disgust perhaps, swept over his own. He passed 
 on, and I heard several ladies inquiring who that was, so 
 noble-looking and so handsome. 
 
 " Why you didn't give aiything. Miss Marples," said 
 Mary Jane in an astonished whisper. 
 
 " I had nothing to give," I replied. 
 
 " But what did you put your hand so for ? It looked so 
 odd!" 
 
 " To let him understand that I had nothiflg." 
 
 We were compelled to sit still a long time, during which 
 this jingling of money went on, accompanied by a hum of 
 voices. When Mrs. Wilton at length rejoined us, we moved 
 
132 Margaret; ok, '- 
 
 with, the crowd down stairs^ passing, as we went, a' group of 
 gentlemen, among whom stood the Dean and Colonel Leigh. 
 
 " How handsome that dark, military man is," said one of 
 the ladies who accompanied Mrs. Wilton. " It's the dean's 
 nephew, Golonel Leigh." 
 
 " ma," said Raymond, " Miss Marples did make that 
 gentleman stare." 
 
 " Make him stare ?" said Mrs. Wilton. " What do you 
 mean ?" 
 
 But there was no time for further conversation then ; we 
 got into our respective carriagesj and drove home. Ray- 
 mond had spoken out of his simple wonderment, and not 
 with any thought of injuring me, but I foresaw that some 
 trouble would arise out of the explanation. Great as was 
 my horror of being asked if I had a father, the idea of him 
 being identified was something worse, and altogether un- 
 bearable. 1 must' get out of the scrape as well as I could. 
 
 I had been sitting for some time amongst the children, 
 describing to them what I had seen, when Mary Jane and 
 Raymond came up. 
 
 " Ma wants to see you, Miss Marples," said Mary Jane, 
 " and I believe she's cross with you for acting so, and not 
 giving anything." 
 
 "I don't know what she should be cross for,'' said Ray- 
 mond. " It amused me more than anything I saw." 
 
 I went down to Mrs; Wilton, who, as I expected, was ex- 
 ceedingly severe and polite. 
 
 " I have been greatly surprised, Miss Marples, by the ac- 
 count the' children give of your conduct to-day, I think 
 there must be a mistake." 
 
 "^iJot about my giving nothing," I said; " as I realty had 
 nothing to spare." 
 
 " That is very singular. But about placing your hand 
 upon the pfate f"' 
 
 " I believe I did so in the confupion of .the moment." 
 
 " Believe you did, and confusion of the moment ! Do 
 you-ineail to say you don't know what you're about ? The 
 people around you looking on, and such a great man as 
 Colonel Leigh is, too,^t was quite dreadful — and such an 
 insult to so noble a cause ! I've often thought you an odd 
 
PREJUDICE AT HOldK. 133' 
 
 person, Miss Marples, but I never expected anything like 
 this. All my friends will know it, for Kaymond has told, 
 and I consider it a discredit to the house. And then it 
 really surprises me that you should be without money for 
 ordinary purposeSi I have allowed you every advantage, 
 aad I think the least thing you can do is to keep up a re- 
 spectable appearance in every way." 
 ■ I vefitured- ■ to mention my grand-father's affliction, and 
 the probable consequences of it. 
 
 "Dear me," she said, "what is to befiome of you? and 
 you wanting dresses, as I am sure you do. If you remain in 
 my house, you must make a respectable appearance. I un- 
 derstood from your grand-father, when I engaged you, that 
 if I provided you with a comfortable home he would do all 
 the rest." 
 
 " I fear," I said, " that my grand-father did not under- 
 stand that I was to receive no salary." 
 
 " Well, you do astonish' me now ! Why, bless my life, 
 it was as clearly understood as could be. I repeated my 
 terms over and over again, so that there might be no mis- 
 take. But this is what I have always found — selfishness, 
 nothing but selfishness in governesses ! But this is scarcely 
 being honest, and what I did not expect from yoM, Miss 
 Marples, or "that old person, your grand-father^ who seem- 
 ed to me to be quite respectable. Well, what's to be 
 done ? This is putting me out of the way dreadfully." 
 
 I expressed ray full conviction that my grand-father could ■ 
 not supply me with clothes — that I should be compelled to 
 arne them for myself. 
 
 " Then I must consider our engagement to be at an end," 
 said Mrs. Wilton. " As I engaged you for a permanency, 
 as I supposed, we can say nothing about notice, though there 
 is no occasion for you to go in a hurry. I suppose you can 
 stop the Week out." 
 
 I consented to do so, and sat down immediately to write 
 to my grand-father. I was not quite sure that Mrs. Wilton 
 was dealing unfairly with me. I had no recollection of her 
 bargaining with my grand-father about supplying me with- 
 clothes ; but I distinctly remembered that she had said noth-' 
 ing about giving me a salary. But eonsideriag how heavy' 
 
134 MARGARET; OR, 
 
 my various duties were, and how faithfully I had discharg- 
 ed them, I could not help considering her conduct unjust, 
 as well as mean. I had certainly expected something bet- 
 ter, and I was overwhelmed by the difficulties of my situa- 
 tion. When I thought of my grand-father in his helpless 
 state, and my own eager wish to cheer as well as assist him, 
 my heart grew more bitter against this world, with its inso- 
 lent assumptions of superiority, its base readiness to take 
 advantage of necessity, its various and always mean and 
 vulgar methods for the furthering of self-interest and the 
 gratification of malice. If these, I said, are the good Chris- 
 tians of this land, God defend me from them ! — from Chris- 
 tianity altogether, if it leads to nothing better than this : 
 rather let me be a heathen than live and die with no better 
 prospect than that of herding for ever with these 
 wolves, the legitimate representatives of a surely fabulous 
 flock ! 
 
 It was a strange idea to me, that of heaven being peo- 
 pled with such souls as seemed to abound in the world. If 
 there were any place of future punishment reserved for in- 
 dividuals like Uncle Stephen, I felt no doubt about prefer- 
 ring it, and I determined to prepare myself for it forthwith. 
 As to the doctrine of non-resistance that my grand-father 
 had taught rae, how was it practicable, unless I consented 
 to be crushed out of life altogether ? 
 
 The young Wiltons, who possessed no strong feelings of 
 any kind, exhibited no emotion at the prospect of losing rae. 
 I was only a governess, and governesses were plentiful 
 enough, as they had some reason to know. 
 
 " I wonder what the next governess will be like," said 
 little Alice. " I hope she won't be au ugly cross old thing." 
 
 "Pa says I shall go to a school, and he won't stand any 
 more of ma's nonsense," said Raymond ; " so I don't care." 
 
 This was all I heard from the children in reference to the 
 subject. I was greatly exasperated with myself for allowing 
 my heart to take an interest in those who did not want my 
 regard — who, indeed, would only look upon it as a singular- 
 ity, or a very great liberty. I had, however, become at- 
 tached to the children, and it cost me a pang, though I 
 would not acknowledge it, to wrench myself away. 
 
PREJUDICE AT HOME. 135 
 
 One day, during Mrs. Wilton's absence, the servant de- 
 sired me to go down *o a lady, who had. called upon her. I 
 found her in the di iwing-room, and she came forward to 
 meet me. She wa young, rather pretty, and very showily 
 dressed, and I remembered her as one of those whom we 
 had accompanied to the anti-slavery meeting. 
 
 " Is it true that you are about to leave Mrs. Wilton 3" 
 she asked. 
 
 I replied that it was. 
 
 " Then I want to ask a favor. When do you leave 3" 
 
 " On Monday next." 
 
 " You have not obtained another situation 3" 
 
 "No." 
 
 " This is my card. I wish you to call upon me on 
 Wednesday morning. Will you call 3" 
 
 I promised that I would. 
 
 " But, positiveLy, you know. I am very earnest about it. 
 You are quite sure you will come 3" 
 
 I could not help smiling at this earnestness in a very 
 giddy sort of young lady. I promised faithfully to call. 
 
 " And don't say anything to Mrs. Wilton about it : mind 
 that. Now don't forget ; I shall be quite disappointed if 
 you are not punctual." 
 
 I promised once more, and the lady tripped down to her 
 carriage. On the-card I read the name " Mrs. Bontoft, 
 Laurel Grove, St. John's Wood." What could she want 
 with me, she who could not have any children old enough 
 to require teaching ? 
 
 I had no great expectation from her or any one, and I 
 was absorbed in my present regrets. I had received a long 
 letter from my grand-father, in which he said Mrs. Wilton 
 had not used me well, but he desired me to trust in God, 
 and keep a good heart. I had asked him to send Jem for 
 my boxes, as I could not afford a coach, and he now inform- 
 ed me that Mr. Chaundy had died four days ago, and that 
 Jem was lying on the floor of his cellar, overwhelmed with 
 grief, and refusing alike food and consolation. He promised 
 to send another person for my boxes. 
 , The intelligence of Mr. Chaundy's death grieved me 
 greatly. When and where should we find another Mend 
 
13S MdROt'XliKT; &6!f 
 
 lilceliim'; so liberal in mind, so warm in' feeliiag; so disin- 
 terested,, so altogether free from- tHe hypoerisyand the cant" 
 of this world? All kinds' of trowMe seemed to be follow-' 
 ing upon us at once, and on whatever side I looked, the - 
 prospect illed nae with: dismay. 
 
 On the appointed Monday, Mrs; Wilton took a very po-- 
 life leave of me. A atrang-ei man brought Jem's 'truck, a;iid 
 my grand-father himself- joined me in the street. I had not' 
 seen him for nearly five months ; for so fearful had we all 
 been of my' givitig. oflFenoe byeTen a short absence from niy 
 duties, that I had not asked for a day's • holiday. I w'as 
 again struck by a great change in him. More wasted tMn 
 ever, bent nearly double, and with his' poor eyes telling their 
 own tal©, it almost broke my heart to lookupon hiin. " 0, 
 my God !" I said mentally, " Thou teaohest me that I do' 
 not exist alone by this body, for if I did not possess a sotil 
 ca-jiable of loathing and resisting the cruelty of this earth, 
 the misery upon which I look would overwhelm me, — I 
 should lie down at once and die' !" 
 
 Aunt Betsy, too, had grown rdore gaunt and sa;llow. ; 
 
 ' " My : eyes' are not' to be trusted," said my grand-fathsr, 
 " but this child is looking very ill, isn't she, sister ?" 
 
 " She's paler and thinner," said Aunt Betsy, " but that-*; 
 w-as sure to.be the' case, living iii London. You' musn't dis- 
 hearten her.'" 
 
 Aunt Betsy set a good example throughout our troubles, 
 by striving to make the best of everythingj I had learned' 
 that my grand-father had been compelled to give up writing ■ 
 alogether, that Aunt Betsy went out nearly every day to 
 such hard labor as she- could find, leaving him alone till late ' 
 at night ; and that the tWo subsisted upon her labor. What • 
 a, life ! I begain to wonder if people felt as I did when they i 
 were going mad. I coiild. not pray to Qtod, for I could not 
 believe that these heavy afflictions were for our good ; and ^ 
 I turned with deep loathing from the world of' which I had 
 already seen too much. 
 
 ) But my spirit was too active and energetic to be kept 
 do'wn long. I saw that. something must be done, a^id done- 
 speediJy. I haid- at least learned a lesson, — I would' not 
 again drudge: for .any ons without understanding wh^t wass 
 
prbjudkSE at home. 137 
 
 t6 be the rewai'd of my labor, and I determined to seek some 
 other kind of employment. Henceforth I would work with 
 Hiy' hands instead of my head,- and remain at home (what a 
 home !) if possible. I mentioned this, and my desire to 
 obtain needlework. Aunt Betsy shook her head. She said 
 there were hundreds of needlewomen starving, however sha 
 would go with me to the shops and we would try. 
 
 " If I cannot obtain work of that kind, Aunt Betsy," I 
 said, "I will go out and labor as you do." 
 
 "With those little, delicate hands?" said Aunt Betsy. 
 "Nobody would think you worth hiring that looked at them; 
 and besides, they wouldn't serve you for such work as mine, 
 ¥ou' must do soinethimg else." 
 
 My grand-father took one of my hands in his as Aunti 
 Betsy spoke, and stroked it fondly. " My poor, poor child !" 
 he said, "I hoped to have done better for you. You believe' 
 I always wished to do the best, don't you ?" 
 
 " Don't speak in that way, grand-father," I said, throwmg 
 my arms round his neck, "you'll break my heart I" 
 
 "Come, we taUstn't have any breaking of hearts," said 
 Aunt Betsy. "There's plenty beside us in trouble, and we 
 must do as they do, — make the best of it* I promised Jem 
 that you should come and see him, Margaret." 
 
 " Yes, poor fellow !" said my grand-father, " you must gor 
 and see him. We must not forget them that are in affliction. 
 I'll put my hat on, and we'll walk there together, now." 
 
 It was an evening in September,' and the day-light was 
 just going out. In the dingy court where we lived, with its 
 tall, crowded houses, it was dark enough. Oflfensive sights 
 and smells, and language such as I had never heard any- 
 where before, disgusted me, and made me shrink into myself 
 as I^ passed. No wonder at th* world setting its face against 
 poverty, if these were its natural products — dirt, and 
 squalor, and uglinesSj and depravity. Was there no remedy 
 for all this ? No wonder that these loathsome objects were 
 not considered to form a part of the agreeable company des- 
 tined to make up the assembly in heaven ! 
 
 As we were passing out of the court my grand-father 
 stumbled against something, and we drew back. A dirty- 
 looking man with a short pipe in his mouth, drew- up and 
 
 6* 
 
138 margarkt; ob, 
 
 kicked with his foot at the obstruction, which proved to be 
 a woman lying at full length upon'the ground. 
 
 "Now Molly," said the man, you just get up, and don't 
 be a-blooking up the road this ways." 
 
 The woman groaned. 
 
 " I wish I was in the churchyard grave," she said. 
 
 " Is she ill ?" asked my grand-father. 
 
 " Only got a drop too much," said the man. 
 
 " You're a big liar !" screamed the woman. " What's 
 left me but the drink to fly to ? — an' I can't get it. Holy 
 mother ! how they forget me up yonder, an' I so wantin' to 
 die !" 
 
 " God help you !" said my grand-father ; " do you feel 
 fit to die, and go into the presence of your God ?" 
 
 " Is it me ?" said the woman ; " Wouldn't I be thankful 
 to get anywhere out of this ? -Don't I wish I'd be a corpse 
 this blessed minit ?" 
 
 " Are you a Eoman Catholic ?" 
 
 " I'm that same, blessed be God." 
 
 " Is there no one to look after this poor creature ?" said 
 my grand-father, addressing the man. 
 
 "The poUis '11 be looking arter her, if she don't take her- 
 self off," said the man. " Lord bless you, it's all a sham 
 what she says ; she only talks in that wav when she's 
 drunk." 
 
 " Don't believe that black heretic !" screamed the woman ; 
 " the curse of Saint Patrick light on him !" 
 
 It was impossible to pass the narrow entry without step- 
 ping over the woman, and we drew back, shocked and be- 
 wildered. 
 
 " Them Irish," said the man, '' is the only ones about us 
 as talks about religion, an' it don't seem to do 'em much 
 good ; they can curse the heretics. It's a queer start, is re- 
 ligion. Now you just let the gentlefolks pass. Here, Bill, 
 lend iis a hand." 
 
 Bill, who swore awfully, assisted the other to drag the wo- 
 man out of the way. The language of the three, and the 
 woman's screams, completely horrified me. What a peace- 
 ful home we had quitted for these scenes of turmoil and 
 deep shame ! 
 
PREJUDICE AT HOME. 139 
 
 I felt my grand-father's arm tremble upon rriine. t im- 
 agined all that was passing in his mind, — the distress that 
 such a scene of itself would occasion him ; the anguish he 
 would feel, knowing that he might not be able to shut out 
 from me many like exhibitions of depravity. I spoke to 
 him of other matters, — of Mr. Chaundy, whom he had seen 
 a few days before his death, when he had spoken of me with 
 much interest. 
 
 " Mr. Chaundy knew the world better than I do." said my 
 grand-father ; " he told me months ago that Mrs. Wilton 
 would serve you as she did, and he wished me to speak to 
 her again ; but I had better hopes. Well, well." 
 
 We stood before Jem's squalid cellar. It was under a 
 marine-store shop, and we descended to it by three dirty 
 steps. My grand-father knocked at the door, and opened 
 it just as a very forlorn-looking woman, fluttering in rags, 
 came forward from the interior. 
 
 " He's there, poor creeter," said the woman, pointing on 
 our inquiry to where Jem lay, huddled up on a heap of 
 straw. " I've just stepped in to clean up a bit ; for he's 
 a'mbst lost, an' nobody to look arter him." 
 
 A thought struck me at the moment. Does He who is 
 no respecter of persons dive into these dens of filth and 
 squalor in search of gems of great price, and find them ? — 
 hearts like this woman's, for instance, in the right place ? It 
 was only a passing idea that heaven would be more desira- 
 ble if the company were thus select. 
 
 " It is very good of you to look after him a little,'' said 
 my grand-father. 
 
 " I don't know about that," said the woman. "It comes 
 nat'ral to us poor folks to help one another. God help us, 
 if it warn't so. I'll step in again, Jem, presently ; an' now 
 you jist get up an' be talked to." 
 
 And with a delicacy of feeling that showed in her as well 
 as it would have done in a duchess, the forlorn creature 
 walked out. 
 
 " Now, Jem," said my grand-father, " how are you ? Look 
 up and speak to us ; — there's my grand-daughter come to 
 see you." 
 
I'iOi MARbAIlE't ; OK,- ' 
 
 - "'S^eat"t6 tne; Jem', for 619. times' sake. I have not seen 
 ybu' so lotigj" I said. 
 
 " Them's jist the -wiords he spoie to me that blessed morn- 
 in' afore he died," said Jem, raising his head. " ' Jem,' says 
 he, ' I've not seen that young gal as they're makin' a slave 
 on yonder for a long while. I'd give a good deal, Jem,' he 
 said, ' if I could help her afore I die.' O Lord, he did !" 
 And Jem sank down and buried his head in the straw again. 
 
 I was about to speak to him further, but a choking sen- 
 sation in my throat stapped me. My thoughts wandered 
 back to thait poor prisoner who had thoug'ht of me in his 
 dying hours, and the tears- sprang to my eyes, for I felt that 
 Iha'd lost one friend whose place might not be supplied 
 readily. 
 
 " We must consider, Jem," said my grand-father, after a 
 short 'pause, " that what we regret so much may be for our 
 friend's benefit. He may have exehatfged an earthly prison 
 foir a heavenly habitation. Let uS not be selish ; I think, 
 — ^I hope,— we have reason to rejoice." ' 
 
 "O Lord ! if they had only made a bishop on him !" said 
 Jem, in a passionate- burst of grief; "If they'd only a put ■ 
 him in a palace as I wasn't let come anear : I should a seen 
 him somewhere, but now I shall never see hini nowhere — 
 never ; never I never !" 
 
 " In heaven, Jem," said my grand-father, placing his hand 
 on Jem's arm, for he sat on a low stool at his side ; " in 
 heaven !" 
 
 There was silence again. I looked round the wretched 
 place in which I sat, the floor of which appeared to be bare 
 earth. There were two ricketty stools, higher than that on 
 which my grand-father was seated ; a block of wood, that 
 seemed to serve for a table ; a bundle of rags in one corner 
 and Jem's truck in another ; a few cracked mugs and plates 
 on a shelf ; a tumble-down fireplace, with a piece of rusty 
 bent iron for a fender, — nothing more, ejEcept a small can- 
 dle guttering over a bottle. It was a sublime thought, that 
 of this poor creature -beirig translated from such a place to 
 heaven ! 
 
 And why not 3 O God !—0 Earth ! the defiled and the 
 undefiJed ! how my spirit wavered between them ! I felt 
 
i;bejudice at home. 141 
 
 r .the power of tie world weakening, and my old faiti com- 
 ing back to me in scenes like these, that afforded me glimp- 
 ses of a final and glorious retribution. I could annihilate 
 • th« dark gulf between, over which I also was called upon to 
 
 "Jem, look up," said my grand-father; "this is sinful ; it 
 is very weak and foolish too ; look up, and be a man, and 
 trust in God. You used to say you found a little life 
 amongst us yonder." 
 
 " So I did,, and so I do," said Jem, raising his head a,gaJB. 
 " Didn't that blessed creeter say to me, ' Jem, don't lose 
 sight on 'em ; help 'em if you can '.' Didn't he 2 Lor bless 
 ■ you, I know 1" 
 
 "Well, you «AaZZ help us. You see, we shall look Ujpon 
 you as a sort of legacy from our old friend, and we shan't 
 be able to get on without you. Then we can talk together 
 labout him, Jem." 
 
 " Yes, I see, " said Jem, setting up and rubbing his hands 
 together, slowly. " That's what he said to me ; — ' You'll 
 often talk about me, Jem ; you an' them,' says he. O Lord ! 
 if I could only tell you all he said !" 
 
 By degrees we brought Jem into a quieter and more re- 
 signed state between us, and when we arose to go he got 
 up too, and said in his natural manner : " I must go 'an see 
 if there's any coal wantin' yonder ;" and thinking it would 
 help to rouse him, my grand-father allowed him to accom- 
 pany us. 
 
 I had thought so little about Mrs. Bontoft that I did not 
 produce her card or mention her request till the following 
 day. My grand-father thought it was quite right to call 
 upon her, and on Wednesday morning we set out together. 
 
 We had not apprised Jem of our journey, knowing that 
 he would insist upon showing the way, and so neglecting 
 his own affairs. We made inquiries about the situation of 
 St. John's Wood, and were advised to take an omnibus as 
 far as Upper Baker Street, iu the New Koad, which we did. 
 We then inquired our way, and found it pretty readily ; 
 and suddenly there came to us the welcome breath of a purer 
 . air, and we had a glimpse of green fields, and the houses, 
 surrounded by their gardens, seeemed perfect elysiums. 
 
142 UAROABEI ; OB, 
 
 We found " Laurel Grove" at last, and a beautiful place 
 it was. The house and grounds were inlosed by a high 
 wall, and there was a lodge at the gate. I left my grand- 
 father walking about, and approached the gate and rang 
 the bell. A woman admitted me, and told me to go on to 
 the house, which was approached by a fragrant shrubbery. 
 At the house a footman opened the door, and upon learning 
 my errand, told me to walk forward. ' He led me into a 
 very luxurious drawing-room whose windows opened upon a 
 lawn. Here was seated Mrs. Bontoft and two other ladies ; 
 and a stout, elderly gentleman in a showy dressing-gown 
 stood with his back to the fire. 
 
 " Oh, I'm so glad you've come !" said Mrs. Bontoft ; 
 " sit here by me, I want to talk to you. So you've left Mrs. 
 Wilton 8" 
 
 I said I had. 
 
 " Now, if you won't think me too inquisitive, I should 
 like to know what salary she gave you." 
 
 " I had no salary." 
 
 " There ! I always said so !" exclaimed Mrs. Bontoft, 
 clapping her hands. " Oh, the shabby woman ! And she 
 did not tell you till the last thing, that you were to have 
 nothing 1" 
 
 "I certainly expected some salary though none had 
 been specified ; and I was surprised when she told me that 
 she thought I had understood that I was not to receive any 
 from the first." 
 
 There was a chorus of exclamations from the ladies about 
 Mrs. Wilton's shabbiness. The gentleman stood with his 
 hands behind him, smiling blandly, but saying nothing. 
 
 " I always hated that Mrs. Wilton for her mean ways,'' 
 said Mrs. Bontoft. " Nobody knows what I've endured 
 from her. I cannot call my carriage my own, and when 
 she comes to the house there's no getting rid of her. An 
 ugly, tiresome old thing ! Now I shall take this young per- 
 son's part, and have a quarrel with her. I quite admired 
 your spirit, Miss Marples, in acting as you did at the meet- 
 ing : it was capital !" 
 
 And the two ladies said it was capital, and talked a great 
 deal about it, and the gentleman chuckled with suppressed 
 
PREJUDICE AT HOME. 143 
 
 laughter ; and I found to my surprise that my exhibition of 
 an empty hand had been construed into a satire on Mrs. 
 "Wilton's meanness. It seemed to strike all present as some- 
 thing very piquant and clever, and as there was no escap- 
 ing the applause showered upon me, I bore it as well as I 
 could. 
 
 " Now, Miss Marples," said Mrs. Bontofl, when she seem- 
 ed at length to have' talked and laughed herself out of 
 breath, " I am in want of a sort of companion, and I think 
 you will suit me. My husband here, Mr. Bontoft, likes to 
 see young and pretty faces about him, so you will suit him. 
 (Here the gentleman on the hearthrug chuckled again, and 
 swayed backwards and forwards on his feet.) I shall not 
 think of engaging you without a salary, shall I, Poppy ?" 
 
 " What's the use 1" exclaimed Mr. Bontoft, the individual 
 appealed to, lifting his right leg and poising it in the air. I 
 thought this brief sentence promised very unfavorably, and 
 my eyes had just dropped from his face to the floor when, 
 " What's the use 1" repeated in a louder key cansed me to 
 look up again. The gentleman now stood upon his right 
 leg and held the left in the air, and in a few seconds he 
 strode hastily across the floor, saying quite hurriedly : — 
 What's the use of having money if you don't make your- 
 selves happy ?" 
 
 This was a peculiarity of Mr. Bontoft's, as I found after- 
 wards. 
 
 " After the heavy task-work you have been used to," said 
 Mrs. Bontoft, — " teaching, making, mending, and doing 
 heaven knows what, at Mrs. Wilton's, you will have an easy 
 time with me. I sliall give you twenty-five pounds a year ; 
 and as she must have put you very much about by making 
 you work for nothing, I will pay you a quarter in advance. 
 Poppy, give me a five-pound note." 
 
 Poppy put his finger and thumb in his waist-coat pocket 
 and drew forth what appeared to me several pieces of dirty 
 paper. 
 
 " What's the use," he said, throwing them before Mrs. 
 Bontoft and raising his right leg ; " what's the use," he con- 
 tinued, lifting the other, " what's the use of having money 
 if you don't make yourselves happy ?" 
 
1.4s4 MAEGARET ; OE, 
 
 • " Seeing Mrs. Bontoft really about giving me the quar- 
 ter's salary in advance, I roused myself to speak, for tbougi 
 I Iiad no objection to this abrupt mode of engaging me, and 
 the money was very tempting, I did not feel quite sure 
 about my qualifications for the place." 
 
 " You are very kind," I said, " and I would gladly aoeepj; 
 your offer, if I could feel more assured that I shgiuld be able 
 ■to give satisfaction. If I understood better what duties 
 were required of me " 
 
 " Oh, you are quite competent to anything I shall impose 
 upon you," said Mrs. Bontoft, interrupting me. " You speak 
 iPrench charmingly. I know you play well ; you can read 
 correctly. If I want to make a milliner and dressmaker of 
 you," she continued, laughing, " I know you will not be at 
 fault there. Come, it's a settled thing ; I've quite set my 
 mind on it. When do you think you can come to us ?" 
 
 I said I should like to have a few days to prepare my- 
 self. 
 
 " Then suppose we say next Monday ?" 
 
 The day suited me, and it was agreed upon. 
 
 " Now make yourself quite happy," said Mr. Bontoft, ap- 
 proaching the table. "Take a glass of wine and a biscuit," 
 and he handed me both. 
 
 " Ah, you will find a difference betwixt being here and at 
 Mrs. Wilton's," said one of the ladies. " Both Mr. and 
 Mrs. Bontoft must make everybody comfortable about 
 them." 
 
 " What's the use," commenced Mr. Bontoft, and he fin- 
 ished his speech in the usual waj. 
 
 " It isn't every one that makes so wise a use of their money, 
 more's the pity, said the other lady. 
 
 Mrs. Bontoft placed the money in my hand, but I felt a 
 hesitation about taking it. I dreaded nothing so much as 
 being asked to give my address, yet I could not, for the life 
 of me, help saying — 
 
 " I am almost entirely a stranger to ypu, madam ; you dp 
 not even know where I live." 
 
 "Oh, I am entirely satisfied about that," said Mrs. 
 Bontoft ; " I know inore than you imagine. I know that 
 if you had had parents to protect you, or if your grand- 
 
FRBJUDICE AT HOME. 145 
 
 father had not been poor, Mrs. Wilton would not have taken 
 the advantage she did ; that makes ir,the more shameful. 
 You will not find me taking such advantage. Make your- 
 self quite easy, Miss Marples. We shall expect you on the 
 Monday, and now, good morning." 
 
 " Don't ring the bell," said Mr. Bontoft ; " come with me, 
 my dear, and I'll show you through the garden." 
 
 I took leave of liie ladies, who were ^ smiles and polite- 
 ness, and foliqwed him through a glass door out upon tlie 
 iawn. 
 
 "Pretty place, aint it 3 he said, looking round him, and 
 seeming to me in a state of intense enjoyment of the present. 
 
 " It is veiy beautiful, indeed," I said, 
 
 " You like beautiful things, eh ? so do I. I've money, and 
 I like to enjoy myself. We've flowers, you see, nearly all 
 tlie year round. Are you fond of flowers 2" 
 
 " Yes, very." 
 
 He plucked a rose, and presented it to me. 
 
 "'The last rose of summer,'" he said; "sweets to the 
 sweet," bowing very politely. " I hope we shall be a happy 
 little company when you come ; nothing like enjoying our 
 selves whilst we can. Good morning." 
 
 The woman who had admitted me stood at tlie lodge 
 door ; she came forward and opened the gate, and I passed 
 out. I rejoined my grand-father immediately, and had to 
 give an account of the interview while its details were yet 
 fresh upon me, I managed this so as to leave a more fa- 
 vorable impression on his mind than I had myself received, 
 though I omitted much that, perhaps, ought to have grati- 
 fied me. The bare facts of having been engaged at once, 
 and cared for so thoughtfully, and trusted so implicitly, told 
 well ; but much of what I had seen and heard, the very ex- 
 cess of kindness and politeness, inspired me witJi distrust. 
 It seem«d to me that, dislike of Mrs, Wilton, and a desire to 
 be rid of her, perhaps to gratify a little vanity by the dis- 
 play of strong contrasts, rather than any real interest in 
 myself, had led to my good fortune. Then I could not help 
 shrinking from these people who avowedly, enjoyed life so 
 much, and evidently prided themselves on the power of ob- 
 taining the good thingfs of this world, and who exacted the 
 
146 MARGARET ; OR, 
 
 obedience that was for their especial gi'atification so confi- 
 ctently, though with a show of kindness. I was rather an 
 odd subject to contribute to the already abundant enjoyment 
 of fortune's favorites ; and I could only expect to flourish 
 on the uncertain tenure of a caprice likely to be brief in 
 •proportion to its violence. 
 
 However, an unsubstantial good might be preferable t& 
 the hard, coarse reality of evil ; and certainly, whatever her 
 motive, or whatever the end might be, Mrs. Bontoft had 
 conferred a present benefit upon me. I thoijght I could 
 perform wonders with the salary she offered me, for, good 
 arithmetician as I was, I was too little experienced in the 
 spending of money to know how far a certain sum would 
 go in providing the necessaries of- life. After a few days, 
 however, during which 1 made some addition to my ward- 
 robe, it became clear to roe that in order to dress well, which 
 I might more than ever be required to do, the twenty-five 
 pounds might easily be spent upon myself, especially if I 
 had my washing to pay for ; and, in the course of my re- 
 flections, I found that I had again made a bargain without 
 any clear understanding of the terms. These discoveries 
 filled me with dismay, for the mere providing for myself 
 was a secondary matter to me. I wished to be near my 
 grand-father; I had determined not to leave him again un- 
 less I was allowed to minister to his wants ; and I was an- 
 gry with myself for having been so readily hurried into an 
 engagement that, however well it promised for me, offered 
 no chance of my helping others. I could not calmly con- 
 template a life of bodily ease and mental torture ; I knew 
 that I should not thrive upon luxuries with this ever-present 
 thought of the hard and scanty fare provided for those I 
 •loved, if indeed they got that; — this was not what I had 
 wanted, and the thoughts of my heart became yet mora 
 bitter ; — it was not much I asked from God or from the 
 world, and it seemed hard that the apparently fairest offer 
 •I had yet met with should only promise to be productive of 
 misery. 
 
 It was an aggravation of my trouble to see what confi- 
 dence and high hope my account of these people had in- 
 spired in my grand-father. He attributed to true" Christian 
 
PREJUDICE AT HOME. 147 
 
 feeling what I regarded as an eccentric ebullition of selfish- 
 ness, and his ready trust in human goodness, while it excit- 
 ed my pity, weakened his influence over me still more ; mak- 
 ing me feel myself the protector rather than the protected, 
 the teacher rather than the taught. For how much I had 
 learned during my brief intercourse with the world, that it 
 would have been hard for him to comprehend, — still harder 
 to believe, — and how rapidly in that world had faded away 
 the lessons he taught me in my solitude ! Had I yet met 
 with any whose actions and motives, like his, seemed to be 
 governed solely by the precepts of Christ ? 
 
 These contradictory teachings and experiences wearied 
 me in the midst of other distracting cares and thoughts. — ' 
 The burden of a mortal lite seemed enough to struggle and 
 provide for, with every man's hand against me ; and I felt 
 that if I, too, did not become a self-seeker, I could only 
 make up my mind to let these Christian people crush me 
 down altogether. 
 
 I saw a good deal of Jem during the few days I was at 
 home. God knows how he lived :" he said it kept him alive 
 to talk about Mr. Chaundy. That gentleman's few posses- 
 sions, such as kds clothes and books, had been seized in pris- 
 on for a debt contracted there, and Jem had no relic of him 
 except a lock of hair, which he kept about his person. A 
 rich relation, who had neglected Mr. Chaundy in life, came 
 forward to bury him, and except that he was missed by us 
 and Jem, he seemed to have left no void in the world. Sis 
 fate affected me very much, as an illustration of individual 
 nothingness. After a few years of suffering so also should 
 we pass away, only more obscurely, and leaving fewer traces 
 of a previous existence behind us. I learned from my aunt 
 that our affairs were desperate enough, the little my grand- 
 father brought with him being exhausted : but she spoka 
 cheeringly of being able to maintain both by her own labor 
 if she could get constant work. I could only resolve to ex- 
 pend as little of my salary as possible on myself ; but when 
 the Monday morning arriv'ed I set out for " Laurel Grove" 
 with a heavy heart. 
 
 Mr. Bontoft's was a model establishment for this world. — 
 Nothing offensive to the ear or eye was allowed to come 
 
148 MAbsabet; ob, 
 
 near it. The servants were all young and comely ; the con- 
 trivances for ease and pleasure were complete ; the furniture 
 and decorations, the .eating and drinking, the constant plans 
 for amusement, and the daily habits of both master and mis- 
 tress, all displayed a crg,ving for luxuriousness. It was 
 shown in the richly carpeted, and curtained, and cushioned 
 pew at Majrylebpne Church, where I had the honor of offer- 
 ing up my prayers in the company of Mr. and Mrs. Bon- 
 toft ; of handhng bibles and prayer-books clasped and rivetr 
 - ted wifih gold and blazoned with the Eontoft arms. I could 
 not complain of my treatment any way, because, as thg 
 lady had said, Mr. and Mrs. Bontoft must have everybody 
 comfortable about them. And it was not a bad idea eithr 
 er, that of the general depending upon individual comfort ; 
 and the plan worked w^U at Laurel Grove, where every one 
 looked happy and satisfied, and where all seemed alike eager 
 to enjoy the good things provided for them. It seemed aU 
 most sinful to bring a murmuring heart into such a piace. I 
 Gould not, for some time, help wondering what Mrs. Bon- 
 toft wanted with nie, as she kept a maid, and required few 
 services from me herself. Days passed on, and I did liter- 
 ally nothing, except read the papers to Mr. Bontoft, or help 
 him to garden, or play till be fell asleep, whilst Mrs. Bon- 
 toft was out visiting. I learned that he was a retired mer- 
 chant, immensely rich, who having no children or near re- 
 lations, determined to have out of the world his money's 
 worth of satisfaction for himself. And a happy man he was, 
 altogether, because he could not believe that there was such 
 a thing as real misery in the world. If people liked to work, 
 he said, (and he had himself worked successfully the greatr 
 er part of his life), there was plenty to do ; if they liked to 
 be idle, society provided the work-house for them. 
 
 " Anything so that you'll make yourselves happy,'' said 
 Mr. Bontoft, apostrophising the word generally. Please your- 
 selves, and we shall get on capitally." 
 
 It was true that accidents would occur in the best regulated 
 world, but Mr. Bontoft subscribed to hospitals, dispensaries, and 
 other publi? charities ; and having performed his own part of 
 duty so far, |ie had a comfortable assurance of all the ills of 
 life being well provided for. Nothing' could be kinder than Mr. 
 
PEBJ0DICB AT HOME. 149 
 
 Bontoft's maimer in his household ; he had pet names for 
 nearly every one. His wife was " moonface," I was " the 
 little fawn," the coachman was " the white bear," and a 
 smart housemaid " the mouse." He liked, too; to include 
 others in all his schemes for self-gratification. He would 
 ask me for instance, if there was anything I should particu- 
 larly like for dinner or lunch ; but though I was aware that 
 a gastronomic idea would not hare been thrown away upon 
 him, I could make nothing of it. I always sat at table 
 with themselves, aiid never was excluded when they had 
 compatiy. Sometimes I Went out in the carriage with both 
 of them, more frequently with Mrs. Bontoft alone, until she 
 had exhibited me amongst all her acquaintances, and repeat- 
 ed, till I was sick of hearing it, the atory of my ill-usage at 
 Mrs, Wilton's. 
 
 The throng of visitors at Laurel Grove made much of me 
 as a favorite, but I only shared their caresses with Mrs. Bon- 
 toft's French poodle. In many asides I was told what a 
 happy creature I ought to consider myself in the possession 
 of such kind friends. To be sure; Mr. and Mrs. Bontoft 
 were very discriminating ; no doubt I was deserving of their 
 patronage. I was certainly handsome and accomplished, 
 aiad gave every promise of being a comfort and a credit to 
 my benefactors. And why was I unhappy, even apart 
 from the thoughts of home ? All this was not to my taste. 
 I could have gloried in the hardest fare and the rudest ac- 
 commodation, with independence. ■ Here I had not the sat- 
 isfaction of feeling that I was earning my daily bread. I 
 feltj in fact, that I had been engaged for the double purpose 
 of displaying an ostentatious liberality, and getting rid of 
 Mts. Wilton. How long would these people, so accustomed 
 to self-gratification, bear With me if their humor changed ? 
 
 Then there was no depth in the feeling about me> kind as 
 it seemed. These people^ so lavish of their favors, would 
 have been hottified if I had spoken of Aunt Betsy's drudg- 
 ery and my grand-father's distress, and my own wish to 
 help them as much as possible. And amidst all this gene- 
 rosity and profusion, there seemed no chance of helping 
 them. A heap of drapery and iiaillin«ry goods arrived one 
 
150 margaeet; ob, 
 
 morning for Mrs. Boijtoft^s inspeetion, and from them she 
 selected two dresses and some other articles for myself. 
 
 " We must have you nicely dressed," she said, " and you 
 need not mind paying for them now. I will keep an account." 
 
 Besides knowing that I really stood in no need of these 
 things — that I had plenty of clothing suited to my station — 
 I had the, additional mortification of being, compelled to 
 wear a costume offensive to me, on account of its gaudy 
 coloring, and likely to entail further expense, because I had 
 nothing to match with it. Aunt Betsy had excellent taste 
 in dress ; she could make the commonest and plainest ma- 
 terial look genteel and becoming ; and, perhaps, from, her 
 I inherited my liking for quietness in attire. It was a real 
 trouble to me to be dressed up. like a doll, especially as it 
 was to be at my own expense. I remembered . hearing Un- 
 cle Stephen say that he could guess at the temper of a wo- 
 man's mind by the way in which she dressed herself at dif- 
 ferent periods of her life. What was to be said of those 
 who, like myself, acted under coercion ? Fashion, the most . 
 arbitrary of all tyrants, would drag along with it the timid 
 and the sensitive, who would shrink from any appearance 
 of singularity ; as for me, I was no better than Mrs. Bon- , 
 toft's French poodle, that submitted to a beautifying process 
 every morning. 
 
 With all his money and skill in making the most of it, 
 Mr. Bontoft could not have eveiything his own way. He 
 was subject to frequent attacks of gout, that confined him 
 to the house ; and at such times I found enough to do, as 
 he required a deal of waiting upon ; and the task of amus- 
 ing him fell entirely upon myself. Mrs. Bontoft visited and 
 attended parties as usual, and I began to perceive that I 
 was not quite so useless as I had supposed myself to be. 
 
 Autumn passed iiway, and the winter months set in,- and 
 there were great preparations for the Christmas festivities. 
 I was one morning seated in the drawing-room with Mr. 
 Bontoft during his wife's absence on a visiting expedition. 
 He had just recovered from an attack, and was, as usual, 
 anxious to make up for lost time ; and it was wonderful 
 how many little contrivances he had for self-enjoyment. I 
 
PEEJUDICB AT HOME. 151 
 
 ■was reading to him in a new comie annual, and he laughed 
 heartily. 
 
 "I say, Little Fawn," he exclaimed, suddenly, ''give- me a 
 glass of vrine. Moonfaoe won't be home to lunch, and w« 
 must ■enjoy ourselves as well as we can. What shall we 
 .Lave?" 
 
 I suggested several dishes that I knew he was partial to. 
 
 " Cooky shall warm us that hare soup ; just the thing for 
 this raw day. Skip into the Idtchen, like a little fawn aa 
 you are, and tell her." 
 
 I went to the kitchen and delivered the message. Oa 
 my return I found Mr. Bontoft, standing where I left him, 
 on the heartk-rug, with his back to the fire ; but his usually 
 smiling faice wore a wrathful expression ; he seemed, indeed, ■ 
 in too great a rage to speak, and pointed with his hand to 
 one of the windows. There, in the midst of the hoar-frost 
 that haidened the ground, and whitened over the bare 
 branches .and the evergreens, exposed to the biting blast and 
 the inclement sky, stood a miserably elad woman and' two 
 half-naked children, all shivering, and all casting a mute, 
 appealing look upon Mr. Bontoft, as he luxuriated over the 
 fire. 
 
 " Isn't this too bad ?" he exclaimed, in a state of excite- 
 ment. " Isn't it dreadful ? Anything like this happening 
 at Laurel Grove ! Good God !" 
 
 I thought his horror was occasioned by the contempla- 
 tioa of so much misery, and that, if only for his own com- 
 fort, he would be compelled to give something. 
 
 " Shall I," I commenced — I was about to say, " shall I 
 go out and speak to them ;" but he interrupted me hastily. 
 
 " Of course, — to be sure, — directly. Tell John to take a 
 horsewhip to them. BJess my life," he continued, ringing 
 the bell violently, " what an infliction this is ? what can be 
 the meaning of it ?" 
 
 The meaning seemed pretty clear to me ; but what he had 
 said confused me, and I .stood, not knowing what to do, 
 when John entered. 
 
 " What are you all about ?" said Mr. Bontoft, again point- 
 ing to the window; " what do I maintain a lodge for ? Look 
 there, sir !" 
 
152 makgarbt; or, 
 
 " iior' a mar<Sy !" said John, in evident distnay, " hovr did 
 they come anear ?" 
 
 He dis ppeared like a shbt, and 1 sooii saw him otitade, 
 driving the poor creatures before hiin. 
 
 " Give me andther glass of wirie;" said Mr. Bootoft ; " this 
 is enough to spwl a man's appetite for a month ! You see 
 how weli-disposed I am to be boimfortable myself and to 
 make everybody aboiit me the same ; but what's to be done 
 where other people neglect their duty ?. I assui-e you, the 
 man at the lodge and his wife^ had strict order^ frord the. 
 first, not to adinit anything of that kind. I Shall be sorty to 
 he severe, but t must look after them." 
 
 Mr. Bohto'ft seated hithself in an arm-chail-, and sippwj 
 his wiiie. 1 bent over the comic book afid thought of the 
 misery that had just bisen driven from this abode of liixuri'' 
 OU8 plenty. I wondered if I could be more of a slave thatl i 
 was, compelled to hide leverj: feeling, and fashion iiiy very 
 Woks, so that they iliight not give oifehce to inf employers. 
 What was i learning from these Christians, to whose teach- 
 ing nii'y grand-father- resigned me without a fear, aftet tear- 
 ing m'e froth thfe cOttipanidnsHip of Uncle Stephen ?" 
 
 " Whgt's the use," exclaimed Mr, Bojitoft ; for he was on 
 his legs again, and he finished his speech in the usual way, 
 the last word brinigihg hiib to my side. 
 
 " I say," ho said^ bending over me, " have yoii got a 
 sWeethbart ?" 
 
 "No, sir." 
 
 " Have you never had one V 
 
 " No, sir." 
 
 " what a shame ! How do yon like Captain Phipps ?" 
 
 " Not much, sir." 
 
 "Not much j that means a great deal in the mouth of a 
 yciutag lady. Well, I have it from Walker, that Captain 
 Phipps admires you vastly." 
 
 " I , am soriy to hear it, sir ; but yoii have surely beea 
 niisinfoi'med." 
 
 " Ha ! -Ha! what odd ways women have of beating about 
 the bush ! Come, now, yciii can't . help being gratified by 
 the admiration of Captain Phipps; everybody admirisS him. 
 I have an incUnation to help you up in the world, and I 
 
PEEj%DiCB AT HOME. ISS 
 
 dbti't kiioW iif this isn't an b|pBtiir(g ; I'll talk to Mbonfeoe 
 about it." 
 
 I had a decided ayersion to Captain Phippg, who sfeemed 
 to coiiie to the house whenever he liked. fi[e always iad- 
 dressed me with the unrestrained familiarity that, in a young 
 inaa, and a superior, was as im'pertinent as anything cotold 
 Well be. I begged thkt Mr. Boiltoft would not think of hiifl 
 in cofiuexion with myself. 
 
 " Oh, say no more abdut it," said M^. Bontoft ; " I know ! 
 Bless you, I never Etiet with a young 'girl that didn't Say 
 exactly the reverse of what she meant in a love affair in my 
 life. Now, I won't hear another word : let's have lunch." 
 
 From what I had seen of young girls, I could believe that 
 what Mr. Bontoft said was true. Affectation and insinceri- 
 ty were^not incoriipatible with boldness ; and for these sins 
 of my sex I must expect to suffer. Perhaps there was a 
 better way than my oWn of getting out of this dilemma ; 
 but who was to teach it me ? I began to have an idea that 
 another storm was preparing for me. 
 
 In the first plabe, Mrs. Bontoft, young and gay, and 
 showily hatidsome, was herself accustomed to receive the 
 homage of Capfain Phipps. Then nothing could be more 
 monstrous than the idea of his entertaining any serious 
 thought of mo. Mr. Bontoft's foolish meddling might set 
 his wife against me, or convert me into a lauging-stock, for 
 I had seen enough of the world's aptitude at twisting the 
 truth to believe it quite possible that the idea of the man's 
 adrriiratibn might eventually be discovered to have originat- 
 ed with fllyself Oh, my God, forgive me, how I hated these 
 people ! How, above all others, I loathed that Captain 
 Phipps, who, under his easy assurance possessed — I was sure 
 of it — all the cold-blooded villany and disdainful pride of 
 Colonel Leigh : why was I so beset — not with temptations, 
 bnt with horrors, that made'life a burden to me, go where I 
 would ? 
 
 Mr. Bontoft was as good as his word, and talked to Moon- 
 face about it that day at dinner. 
 
 " Bless me ! " she said, turning and looking me full in 
 the face, " this is news 1 Whatever has the Captain been 
 saying to you 3" 
 
154 maroarbt; o», 
 
 I assured her that the Captain had said nothing particu- 
 lar to me ; that Mr. Bontoft's communication had surprised 
 me equally with herself. 
 
 " O Poppy," she said, " you must act with more disnre- 
 tion ! Only think of offending Captain Phipps by letting 
 him see you entertained such a notion, — so absurd ! And I 
 trust. Miss Marples, you will give no encouragenient to 
 young men of his rank in my house : you must be aware 
 that it would lead to nothing creditable." 
 
 I assured her that nothing would be further from my 
 thoughts than giving such encouragement, if I had the op- 
 portunity, and I thanked her for placing the subject in a 
 right light before Mr. Bontoft. I might further have assur- 
 ed her, that if Captain Phipps could so far forget himself 
 and my poverty and insignificance as to make me an offer 
 of his hand, I should certainly refuse it at once, for many 
 reasons independent of my utter contempt for himself. 
 Several months before, I had formed a resolution to pass 
 through the world alone ; I would not bring to any one the 
 dower of my own disgrace ; I would not perpetuate it ; I 
 had sufficient pride to sustain me through a solitary life, 
 and this would not allow me to fail in self-respect. I lifted 
 my head high above these people by whom I was despised ; 
 I exulted in the knowledge that they could not bring me 
 down to their own level. 
 
 From this day I was made painfully aware that Mrs. Bon- 
 toft regarded me with jealous dislike. In company she took 
 great pains to make others as well as myself aware of ray 
 dependent state and obscure origin, expatiating not very 
 delicately on her own generosity in rescuing me from desti- 
 tution, and ostentatiously promising her protection so long 
 as I deserved it.. This led to further congratulations from 
 the visitors, flattering to Mrs. Bontoft, but charged with 
 the bitterness of the fruit of the tree of knowledge to my- 
 self. 
 
 In the midst of all this, the conviction was forced upon 
 me that Captain Phipps was seriously inclined to make him- 
 self more hateful, and to prove a further annoyance to me. 
 Supposing that his approaches to myself were in conformity 
 with established custom between a superior and inferior 
 
PREJUDICE AT HOME. 155 
 
 where notliing "serious" was meant, it was sufficiently as- 
 tonishing to an unsophisticated woman how all the misery 
 and shame that desolates so many homes could be brought 
 about. Astonishing that the natural pride, and delicacy, 
 and resentment of womanhood did not rise up at once, and 
 with indomitable pow«r put down the insolent pretension, 
 and base purpose, and inordinate vanity, and hold up to a 
 scorn that should be everlasting, the vileness that can tram- 
 ple upon all that should be sacred, and make a boast of the 
 ■achievement. If I were here doubly armed, I did not es- 
 cape without my share of suffering. With Mrs. Bontoft's 
 eyes always upon me, I had to repel the Captain's advances 
 as well as I could, and he contrived to make this a difficult 
 matter. If our eyes chanced to meet, he would smile in a 
 significant manner, as if there were some secret intelligence 
 between us ; if I were told to play, he fastened himself at 
 my side j turning over the leaves of the music-book, 
 whispering extravagant comrpendations, and, occasionally 
 pressing his "foot upon mine, staring me impudently in the 
 face all the time. W^'^^n we met or parted, he would extend 
 his hand where he knew I could not well refuse mine, and 
 squeeze my fingers till the blood retreated. If any delicately 
 nurtured and pi'oud beauty, whose position places her out of 
 the reach of such indignity, should think lightly of the deli- 
 cacy that could submit to all this, I can only say, that never 
 did indignation burn more fiercely in any soul than it did 
 in mine while yet I knew not how to giv-e vent to it. I 
 could not tell how Mrs. Bontoft might receive a complaint 
 of these freedoms, and the man had said nothing positively 
 to call for interference. There were plenty ready to stand 
 up in his defence ; and I shrank from the idea of incurring 
 a charge of having falsely interpreted liberties that from 
 him to me might be considered top trifling for notice. 
 
 And that vast difference between him and me — my G-od ! 
 in what did it consist ? Through many long and sleepless, 
 nights I wandered about my room, asking of heaven or 
 earth an answer to this question. To what purpose was I 
 endowed with a reasonable sense of what was right and 
 wrong , if circumstances were continually to keep me 
 down, and choke my utterance, and compel my acquiescence 
 
136 iIiargAbet; b'ft, 
 
 in what I knew to he evil ? And if these outbursts of feel- 
 ifig ended as tHfey began, in a dogged sense of my own, help- 
 lessness, they Ipft behind them a lurking belief that the 
 .fierce storm gathering in my sOul would some day scatter 
 the humiliating restraints of my positioij and set ine free. ., 
 
 No mutter about the terms of the freedom, I thought 
 then. God h^elp me 1 1 had not yet become familiar with 
 starvatioii, or with the tender mercies of parish dignitaries, 
 I was yet a novice in this old world's ways for grinding 
 souls into the, dust. 
 
 In one respect it was well for me that I hacl suflScient 
 causes of dissatisfaction. I was in danger of Being infected 
 by the habits of unoontrolfed indulgence, and the luxurious 
 ease about me : I had a craving desire for the beautifiil, and 
 a life of elegant leisure suited me very well. I should have 
 been inclined to overrate the privilege, of lying down in 
 pleasant places, and to leave them with regret if I had not 
 been constantly reminded that 1 was an intruder, and ad- 
 moiiished sternly on the folly of cultivating tastes thab 
 could ohly dissatisfy me further with the uncertainties and 
 the dependencies to which I was born. I was further pro- 
 tected from besetting weakness by a restlessness of spirit for 
 which a life of ease and indulgence offered ho adequate 
 scope; and at all times I's'eerried to hold a invsterious cpm,- 
 rnunication with the future, as if a spiritiially visible hand 
 was beckoning me onward, and compelling obedience to its 
 movements, This feeling of alwiays waiting for something 
 that must be arrived at, whether I desired it or riot, never 
 left tne in thfe darkest days of hiy trial; and if it did not 
 supply me with an incentive to live on, it did the next best 
 thing, — of proving that my 'time wa;s riot yet coine to lie 
 down and die. 
 
 , Another weary month passed on, and ope riiorning, late 
 in January, I was left alone, Mr. and Mrs. Bontoft having 
 gone Out together. I was in a despondent mood, for Aunt 
 Betsy's letters had of late assumed a sadder tone (my grand- 
 father was how altogether incapable of writing ; ) and 
 knowing her propensity for making the best of everything, 
 my imagination readily supplied what she had left unsaid. 
 I began to loathe the luxury by which t was surrounded, the 
 
PEEJtFCIcI! AT HOME. 157 
 
 TeisuM tljat was filled up -witli bitter thoughts. Conscience 
 brought back to me the many hours during whish I had 
 indulged a selfish fofgetfulness in the preseflt : and I felt 
 that I had committed a mistake when I last left my I'elations 
 to b6ar their hard struggle alone. I thought of my grand- 
 father, nearly bSind, and left to himself all day, and of Autft 
 Betfey returiiirig to him at night after a hard day of toil. I 
 h'M now tried to make a living out of my acquirements 
 during more than twelre months, and I fbufid myself worse 
 off thau 'at the beginning. Worse, because nay stock of 
 clotheB was diininishing, and I had literally not been able 
 to save a penny. I felt that if I C6uld obtain needlework, 
 and remain at home with liiy grand-father, I should be at 
 once happier and more useful : and this idea fastening 
 itself upon me, I sat down to write to Aunt Betsy, explaining 
 to her why my preseint niode of life was altogether profitless, 
 and imploring lealve to return home. I was so absorbed 
 that I did riot hear the draWing-room dodr open, nor was I 
 aware of any one approaching until a hand was placed upon 
 niy shouldejr, and I instinctively shrank away from it. 
 
 " I'm in luck to-day, Upon my soul," said Captaiii Phipps, 
 seating himself beside me on the sofa. " You betwitching 
 little cweater ! how coolly you have looked on, witnessing 
 Hiy agonies, when you must have known that I was dying 
 to" speak to you! Come, that twaddling old fellow ind Ma 
 fussy wife cannoi; overhear us, and you must listen to me or 
 I shall go distwacted, positively." 
 
 I had risen up and moved my papers away. I stirred no 
 farther than to the fextreme end of the table. I, too, had 
 something to say, and I was rather pleased than otherwise 
 to have this opportunity of giving utterance to the scorn 
 tod indignktioh that seemed to ooze out of every pore in 
 my body. I felt myself too well armed against this pigmy 
 assailant to speak irritably. 
 
 " And what have you got to say that may not be uttered 
 before yoUr fi-iends ?" I asked. " Wh^t is it that you so 
 confidently expect Wie to listen tol Do not let me dis- 
 concert you : speak on. Thete is no one to overhear us, as 
 you say, — not even God ; for who in these days believes in 
 the existehce of a God ? Besides, you are a soldier, and ought 
 
153 Margaret; or, 
 
 to be brave ; and I am poor and dependent, and you need 
 not fear me. You see I am quite ready to listen." ' 
 
 "Upon my soul you are a stwange girl," said Captain 
 Phipps ; " but I like a woman of spirit. I hate dolls. And 
 you are quite right : let us come to the point at once ; that's 
 ray way always. You know I adore you. I have told you 
 so fifty times over without speaking. Now I'll tell you 
 what I'll do for you. I'll dwive you down to Bwighton, 
 four in hand, and you shall dwess as you like, and have 
 jewelry, and hold your head above them all. Hang it ! 
 when I first saw you, I felt there was a what-d'ye-call-em — 
 a sort of congeniality between us. Come now, be a com- 
 plying angel. These people are making a slave of you. 
 With me you shall have your own way, and live like a 
 queen." 
 
 This was precisely the sort of experience that always fixed 
 for the moment my wavering faith in God, and my own 
 immortality. For I could not believe that there was nothing 
 more than "earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust," 
 betwixt me and this man,' who shamed his own nature, if only 
 as a clod of the valley ; and I was forced to feel that the 
 inward quivering of passion that did not move a muscle of 
 my frame lifted me out of my materiality. 
 
 The breath of power that swept over me was cold to the 
 mortal touch, as it had ever been. I stood rigidly erect 
 before the man with a sensation of my blood turning to 
 ice ; my lips were cold as marble, and moved as heavily, 
 though the words they uttered .seemed to be produced by a 
 force within me that struck them out of fire. 
 
 " I have heard you to my own shame," I said ; " not, to 
 yours, because you must have been lost to all shame before 
 you could so address yourself to one whom you believed to 
 be poor and dependent, and without a free choice. There 
 are no words to express the contempt and scorn in which I 
 hold you. I loathe you and your offer alike. But you have 
 made a mistake, and I must correct you. I am not so un- 
 protected that I am compelled to endure your insolence 
 from day to day. If you are not too shallow to comprehend 
 what is plain enough, or too efi"eminate to grasp at stubborn 
 realities, you may understand that I am even able to protect 
 
PEBJUDICE AT HOME. 159 
 
 myself. You have no right to be here, sir, in the absence 
 of your friends, and I desire you to quit the room and the 
 house." 
 
 The door was opened as I spoke, and Mr. and Mrs. Bon- 
 toft walked in. 
 
 " Bless my life 1" exclaimed the latter, " who are you or- 
 dering out of the room and the house ! Well, I declare, I 
 expected something like this !" 
 
 - " Why — ^why — why what's the matter, Phipps 2" said Mr. 
 Bontoft. 
 
 " Oh, I don't know," said Captain Phipps, lazily extending 
 himself upon the sofa, and yawning. " The young lady has 
 been working herself up into an extraordinary fit of heroics, 
 and upon my soul I'm sorry you interrupted the fun. Mrs. 
 Bontoft, if I did not know you had a chawming temper, I 
 should wonder how you managed her." 
 
 "Miss Marples," said Mrs. Bontoft, turning upon me, 
 sharply, " I insist upon your explaining yourself." 
 
 " I have nothing to explain," I said, " except that that 
 man has insulted me, and £ cannot remain in the same room 
 with him." 
 
 " That man V repeated Mrs. Bontoft; it might be that 
 gentleman, I think, in your mouth." 
 
 I heard no more, for I walked out, and went up stairs to 
 my bed-room. Mechanically I began packing up the few 
 things lying about that belonged to myself. That uncon- 
 trollable impulse under which I had acted, whether right or 
 not, told against me in this world ; but it was enough that 
 I did not regret it. It was however, a battle of the weak 
 with the strong, and I knew that I should be discomfited. 
 " Perhaps God is guiding me for the best, in spite of my- 
 self," I said. " At all events, it is well that I should I'eturn 
 to my grand-father." 
 
 It was yet early in the day, and I remained many hours 
 alone, no one coming near me. 
 
 Mrs. Bontoft's maid appeared at length, and brought me 
 some tea. 
 
 " I hadn't any orders," she said, " but I thought you must 
 be hungry. I'm so sorry you're going." 
 
 " It can't be helped," I said. 
 
160 lifAKXJA'ltET ; oft, 
 
 Salraii lingered in the room, alfid at leiigth ^aid : 
 
 " I think, miss, if you would speak to Captain Phipps he 
 would make it all right again. He's a pleasant gentleman 
 sotaetimes." 
 
 " I cannot do that, Sarah," I said. " You do not under- 
 stand : 'say ii6 more about it." 
 
 At k laWr hour I Was ordered «*k)Wn stairs. I fonnd Mr. 
 and' Mrs. Bontoft "and Captain Phipps seated round a table 
 covered w'iiih wines, cakes, and various kinds of confe'ctio'fts. 
 The Captain was holding a glass of wine to his eye when I 
 Entered, and he sipped it leisurely whilst I remained. 
 
 " I don't intend to have more words with yon th'an are 
 neci3ssary,"'said Mrs. Bontoft; "but I think it due to Cap- 
 tain Phipps to Mt him see that no dependent in this house 
 has otir authority for acting impertinently. I 'don't want 
 you to say anything ; the Captain has given us his word of 
 h'ontor that his staterdent is corre6t, and I am really aston- 
 ished at your giving yourself such airs. Some {ieople can- 
 ilot be indulged without forgetting themselves and taking 
 liberties. The Captain has been kind enough to intercede 
 for yoUj but keeping you here is out of the question." 
 
 " Oh dear, no, no !" said Mr. Bontoft 5 "let her go : we 
 mustn't be made uncomfortable in this way. Now, Mbon- 
 faee, get rid of it and let us enjoy ourselves." 
 
 "I've little further to say," said Mrs. Bontoft, "exeept 
 that as I have overpaid you already, you must not 
 expect anything more. I suppose that you will not deny 
 that I ha've paid •you one quarter, and the things I have-pur- 
 chased for you amount to more than is due for the quarter^ 
 upon which ydu have just entered. So, in fact, I am still 
 giving you a quarter's salary in advance. This must sei-ve 
 in lieuof 'notioei which I really could not give with the pros- 
 pect of being annoyed, further." 
 
 ■ " Oh .dear, no !" Said 'Mr. Bontoft •; " get rid of nuisandes 
 at once." 
 
 " Then you will prepare yburself to go to inorrow morn- 
 ing," said Mrs. Bontoft. 
 
 I had stood still without speaking a word. To what pur- 
 pose could I speak? I made an inclination, and was 
 moving towards the door, when Captain Phipps called but : 
 
PBEJUDICK AT HOME. 161 
 
 "TJiri — aw — just wait a minute. When next you choose 
 to go on stilts and u^e stwong expwessions, just Stop to con- 
 sider who you're talking about, will you 3" 
 
 The knowledge that I could not make matters worse by 
 saying anything, did not incline me to open my mouth. At 
 the moment, I did not feel myself so much in the hands of 
 the^e people as in the hands of God : and I was rather 
 inclined to sSy to the Creator, " Why is this iniquity permit- 
 ted ?" than to the fereatufe, " I defy you, I can still defend 
 myself." 
 
 I know, what every Englishman and woman who may 
 read this knows well, that ho negro or quadroon in the worst 
 Slave State of America is further removed from the pale of 
 humanity, more really despised and down-troddfen, than is 
 poverty in this free arid self-righteOus land. In making 
 use of nie for her own grktitication Mrs. Bontoft had not 
 rated toe above any other artifele necessary to her state ; I 
 had never received more personal consideration from her 
 than I did at the moment of my abrupt dismissal ; and 
 Captain Phipps, though — possessing a mind of extra little- 
 ness — he took the trouble to rebuke tne, cared no more for 
 my estimate of his "word of honor" than he would have 
 done if 1 had been a negro or a dog. And if people well to 
 do in the world, people of money and position, will analyse 
 theii- own feelings and take a retrospect of their own actions 
 from day to day in connection with their readiness to stand 
 by their own class and their inborn abhorrence of poverty 
 in all shapes, they will at once acknowledge my experience 
 to be nothing out of the way, though they may marvel at 
 my assurance in attempting to bring anything so common- 
 place prCmlnentli^ forward. 
 
 I will say nothing about tiiy feelings during that long 
 night, because few would care for them, and those few may 
 never read these pages. I had remaining, the little money 
 I brought with me, and this enabled me to pay for the hack- 
 ney coach that John ordered to the door the next mornilig. 
 When I gave my address to the coachman — " Brook's Court, 
 Clerkenwell," — ^he regarded me with the insolent look that, 
 in England, is called forth even from the poorest, by an admis- 
 sioH ^6r iffSmcidn of mean circumstances. 
 
 7* 
 
162' mabgarbt; or, 
 
 " Brook's Court," he repeated ; " I never heard on it. Is 
 it anywheres near Clerkenwell Green ?" I could not tell him, . 
 and after some grumbling he mounted the box, and I was 
 driven away from that abode of elegance and social ease. 
 I did not see either Mr. or Mrs. Bontoft, and I had the com- 
 fort of knowing that my departure would give great satisfac- 
 tion to both these individuals to whose daily enjoyment of 
 life I had proved a slight interruption. I did not seem to 
 have been driven far when the coachman called out to know 
 if I could direct him which way to turn, but I could not, 
 and he got off the box grumbling, and went into a shop to 
 make inquiries. He seemed to have obtained some clue, , 
 for he drove off again, and presently deposited me and my 
 two boxes at the bottom of Brook's Court. 
 
 I can't leave them 'osses to carry that ere luggage," he 
 said, as I paid him the fare. " There's plenty as '11 do it if 
 you look about." And so saying he mounted to his seat 
 and drove away. 
 
 It was a populous neighborhood, and plenty of people 
 were passing to and fro, but I did not know whom to ad- 
 dress. A fat, dissipated-looking woman of about forty, with 
 a string of heavy beads round her neck, and no cap on, . 
 strolled down to the end of the court, and stood there with 
 her arms folded. 
 
 " Are you in wants of a porter ?" she said at length, ad- 
 dressing me. 
 
 " I want some one to carry these boxes," I said ; " only a 
 little way, to number nine up the court." 
 
 " Lauk ! Do you live here f" 
 
 " My grand-father does." 
 
 " Oh, I knows ; the old man as is ill. Wait a minute ; 
 I'll fetch a cove as '11 do the job. if he aint too drunk." 
 
 The old man that was ill ! My grand-father had been 
 ill, then, and they had not told me. My heart beat thick 
 and fast, and it seemed an age till the woman returned. 
 
 " Sam '11 be here presently," she said, on making her 
 appearance, " an' him an' me can carry 'em between us." 
 
 I asked her to take charge of the boxes at once, and hur- 
 ried up the court. I rushed into the wrong house, and 
 was driven out by a hideous old woman, who called me a 
 
PREJTmiCE AT HOME. 163 
 
 " blazon young faggot." I cannot help it if I am compelled to' 
 record much that is horrible ; I sat down with the intention 
 of giving a faithful narrative of the past as it bore upon my 
 feelings and my destiny. 
 
 It is a fact that one shock neutralises another. I found 
 the right house, and walked upstairs quietly. I opened the 
 door of our room, and saw my grand-father stretched upon 
 a mattress on the floor, apparently fast asleep. There was 
 a heaviness about the wan face and attenuated figure that 
 might well be taken for that of death, and I gazed upon him 
 till my heart seemed to stand still. Presently I heard a 
 noise down stairs, and went out and closed the door gently, 
 and waited till the woman and her companion came up with 
 my boxes. 
 
 I told them to leave them on the landing, and asked 
 what I had to pay. 
 
 " What you like to give," said the woman. 
 
 That indefinite mode of- compensation is never more tan- 
 talising than when you fe'el that you have little to be- 
 stow. I -had no smaller coin than a shilling in my purse ; 
 and, as I held one irresolutely in my fingers, the woman 
 called out, " that'll do," taking possession of it as she 
 spoke. 
 
 " I go halves," said the man who was with her. 
 
 "„You be blowe#^' said the woman ; " I'll treat you to 
 three pen'orth, an' that's more nor you deserve ; just bundle 
 down." 
 
 I waited till they were fairly gone, and then opened the 
 door again. My grand-father was awake, and he uttered 
 my name feebly, and I went to his side, and knelt down and 
 kissed his forehead and his pale lips. 
 
 " And so they sent for you, my child," he said. " I told 
 them not, and you see I am now getting well. Yet this 
 surprise is pleasant, too." 
 
 I thought the pleasantness would be diminished when he 
 understood that I was once more driven iorth and penniless. 
 It was painful to me to give this explanation, though just be- 
 fore I had considered the change for the best. However I 
 spoke out at once. 
 
 " No one sent for me, dear grand-father, and I did- not 
 
164 MAltoXtlETJ OR, 
 
 ktio\r you were ill, ov I sliould have been here before. Notv 
 I ■\i('ili not leave y6u again. You require a nurse, and I 
 cat! work while t attetid to yoti. I shall fool happiur thail 
 I have been while away from you, grand-fathiar." 
 
 "I am sorry for this," he said, looking at me Wistfully. 
 " If hot quitia happy, I had the satisfaction of knowing that 
 you were well protected ; that yoU wore kopt out of the 
 way of the vicious, whose example shocks and withers (ho 
 feelings if it cannot corrupt them. I had hoped to got out 
 of this place before ybii returned to niu." 
 
 Here was my grand-father, like the rest 6f the world, 
 strong in his belief that nothing vicious or degi-ading could be 
 found amongst respaotable people. His simplicity was a spooios 
 of weakness to which I felt compelled to minister, for wliat 
 was the use of distrsssilig hith further with details of the ini- 
 quity in many forms by which my heart had b6en shocked 
 and withered, if hot corrupted. 
 
 I needed to give no further explanation of the abrupt ter- 
 mination of my engagement than was to be found in the 
 natUril dying avlray of the caprice that lod to it, I was abls 
 t6 prove that it Would have been impossiblo to save any- 
 thing out of toy salary, and tbat therefore my remaining 
 would have proved to be no ultimate advantage even to my- 
 self. I was addressing myself to an invalid in the last stage 
 of weakness, and l tried to speak as oheeffuUy and hopefid- 
 ly as possible. And it is astonishing how soon I began to 
 feel as if I had never been absent it»m this homo, sanctifl- 
 ed by the light of afl'ection. Presently Aunt Betsy came 
 iii with some medicine. If aho, too, was surprised and 
 troubled, she gave little expression to her fuulitigs, and en- 
 couraged me in ray hope of findihg something to do at 
 hoine. 
 
 I learied that my griind-father had been ill more tliAn a 
 month ; during which time my aunt had been compelled to 
 attend to him. How thev had lived God knows, and I 
 dreaded to ask. I missoJ nearly all of my grand-father's 
 books, as well as several other things that used to lie iibouU 
 I supposed that they had been sold to procure nooossiirios, 
 and I did not shrink from looking those woi-st howors in 
 th6 fade at once. 
 
PB.EJ0DIOB AT HOHE. 165 
 
 My grand-father dozed through half the day, and I sat 
 consulting with Aunt Betsy. She acknowledged that our sit- 
 uation was bad enough ; that, having heraelf been unable to 
 work in consequence of my grand-fether's illness, they had 
 been compelled to dispose of the books, and such other 
 things as could be best spared. The great difficulty was 
 paying the rent — six shillings a week for that miserable 
 place. 
 
 " I do hope that your coming home will turn out for the 
 beat," said Aunt Bet?y. " Whilst your grand-father was at 
 the worst, Jem was a great help to me ; now he is getting 
 better, and if you could procure a little needlework you 
 could attend to him and work at the same time. There's 
 two young girls occupying an attic in this house that get a 
 living by vvorking for the ready-made linen shops. That 
 is," continued Aunt Betsy, feeling it necessary to modify her 
 words, " they contrive to keep soul and body together. I'm 
 an old woman, but I never met with anything like the suf- 
 fering there is in this overgrown town, Margaret. These 
 two sisters are orphans, quite alone in the world, and they 
 tell me that, work as hard as they will, they can only earn 
 one shilling a day, finding their own needles and thread ! 
 Well, you had better be doing this than nothing. If you 
 like, you shall go up and see them ; they are so lonely, poor 
 things 1 they will be glad of a visit from you." 
 
 I felt quite eager to go to them ; and as my grand-father 
 slept, Aunt Betsy took me out, closing the door gently be- 
 hind us. I followed her to the top landing, and she knock- 
 ed at the door of the bacfe attic. A low voice told us to 
 come in. ' 
 
166 MARGARET; OR, 
 
 CHAPTER Vm. 
 
 I BELIEVE my unexpected appearance disconcerted the 
 two girls very much. I was well dressed, which made their 
 own shabbiness more conspicuous ; and, perhaps, experi- 
 ence had taught them to look for little sympathy from one 
 of their own age and sex, whose position appeared to be 
 above theirs. 
 
 " It's only my niece," said Aunt Betsy ; " if you let us see 
 that we disturb you, we shall go away directly." 
 
 " Oh, you don't disturb us at all," said the eldest of the 
 gii'ls, who had started up from a table at our entrance, her 
 pale face flushing for an instant. " We have just been 
 getting an early tea, and we are very busy, so you must 
 excuse finding us in this state. Will you sit down. Miss ?" 
 
 She dusted a chair, and placed it for me. The early tea, 
 I suspected, included the day's dinner. The tea-pot stood 
 on the hob, and on the table, (a small round one), were two 
 cracked mugs, a basin containing some coarse sugar, part 
 of a loaf of bread, some butter, and the remains of a her- 
 
 " I assure you we had quite done,'' said the girl, in reply 
 to something my aunt said. " Susan was just going to clear 
 away, so don't go on that account. We have set oujrselves 
 a task, Mrs. Marples, but I don't know how we shall get 
 on with it. We sat up all last night, and intend to do the 
 same to-night ; but Susan stands it better than I do, and 
 I'm afraid I shall be falling asleep ; it's a long time to keep 
 awake, you tnow, and such tiresome work." 
 
 " And you won't find it a saving in the end," said Aunt 
 Betsy, " Suppose it makes you both ill now V 
 
PBEJUDICB AT HOME, 167 
 
 " I tell Susan so," said tlie girl, " but she has such a spirit ! 
 And then we really have need to try something extra. We 
 shall see how we get on." 
 
 This elder sister interested me very much. I wished that 
 she would look me full in the face, instead of glancing at 
 me furtively, and dropping her eyes whenever they met mine. 
 As I gazed at her I could not help thinking that if well 
 dressed, even joyless and in ill-health as she evidently was, 
 she would look better in every respect than any of the gay 
 .girls I had seen at Mrs. Brown's. She seemed to be about 
 seventeen or eighteen years old, and without being hand- 
 some, her appearance altogether was pleasing. Her soft, 
 bright brown hair was very neatly arranged, and a beautiful 
 set of teeth and a well formed mouth rendered her smile, 
 sad as it was, very fascinating. The other sister appeared 
 to 'me quite a child, though I afterwards learned that she 
 was nearly fourteen. Unlike the elder one, she was short 
 and stout, altogether sturdy in appearance and manner, and 
 our presence did not seem to disturb her at all as she busied 
 herself about the room. She was not so pretty as her sister, 
 being slightly marked with' the small-pox, and I found that 
 I had attracted her particular notice for some reason, as she 
 rarely took her eyes off me. 
 
 "Well, Mary," said Aunt Betsy, "my niece wished to see 
 you, and now I have introduced you to one another. I 
 shall leave you together ; for young people get on best by 
 themselves. You must not make a stranger of her ; for, 
 thank God, I can feel that her heart is in the right place, 
 or I shouldn't have brought her here. I'll take care of 
 grand^father," she added, turning to me, " and you may stop 
 as long as you like." 
 
 The rapid lifting and dropping again of Mary's heavy eyes 
 seemed to betoken some fear of this arrangement ; but Aunt 
 Betsy was gone, and I, who had not yet spoken a word 
 roused myself for an effort that should break through this 
 embarrassment. 
 
 " You must not let me be an interruption," I said ; " if 
 you will allow me to help you, I shall feel quite pleasad ; in- 
 deed it will be conferring a favor upon me, for as I shall have 
 
^Q oarn K>y livi)ig in Uio aamo wuy, U ii ai wall to be|[in 
 
 Mary fifliod her oyos from hur wurk in Qvld«uli iMliOulili- 
 mont, 
 
 " But you hav9 boon woll oduontod," iho laid ; " lurtly 
 you htivQ no »oed to turn to luoli di'aditory hi oui'« lii" 
 
 "Mine hM been Imiwior dt'udgsry,'' I loidi "boomua T 
 novel- was lo ftdepoudsut m you nra ; indeed, I l)nv9 uovur 
 earnod aaytMng that I could do an I lilcod with, and I 
 «bould bo far worsQ off than you are If I liiid not bkd a 
 hojiQQ to roturn to. Oom^, I uavo got a tblmblo { let mtt 
 ^lelp you." 
 
 Mary itill soomod to beiUate ; but Sutnn oamo forward 
 ^affioi'ly. 
 
 r Oil. yei, let hov bolp us 1 Vou know how badJy I want 
 a new trook ; and if wo don't work hard, I onu't got onoi 
 Look here, Hits Marples, you can bo sowing tliut." 
 
 I took what was olTorea mo, and oommouood in earnoit. 
 
 " You are very kind," said Mary. " That ohild has been 
 
 Soilt. Bho was t^ great pot at liomo and I have got In 
 habit of humoring hor. She is all that if loft to me, 
 too. But you surprise mo with what you say about youi** 
 selfi 1 have often wishod that I had boon well eduoated, 
 thai; I might have dona something hotter for Buian and my- 
 self." 
 
 ," X havo not found a good education of muoh uso to mo," 
 I uiid, 'f in the way of oaruiug a living. You may undor- 
 ftand that, from what I i«ay, 1 am quite iu uarnost ubuut 
 trying to get my living os you do," 
 
 " E is very grievous," said Mary, in hor quiet manner, 
 "There soems to be littlo that wu poor women oun turn 
 to with advantage. That makes me so unhappy about 
 Susan." 
 
 "'And not about yourself 9" I thought us I lifted my 
 eyes to look at hor. How old, oxperleooo soomed to have 
 made hor, young as she was I 
 
 "Sister always talks so odd I" said Busan; f'us if wo 
 should be doing this all our lives I I mean to marry, and 
 make my fortune." 
 
 Mary Mod hor oyos to mine for au instant, and we iDte^ 
 
PEEJUBICE AT HOME. 169 
 
 cliansed a world of experience in the glance. We both 
 pitied this child, who seemed doomed to a more than ordi- 
 nary disappointment. 
 
 ' " I do admire your dress, Miss Marples," continued Susan, 
 who was very chatty. " I was always so nicely dressed at 
 home, wasn't I Mary ? and now I'm quite ashamed to go 
 out. People stare so when you're ill-dressed." 
 
 " For my part," said Mary, " I consider a shabby dress a 
 sort of protection : nobody cares to look at you." 
 
 " Now, that's just like her," said Susan ; " she would 
 rather not be looked at : isn't that odd ?" 
 
 I had never been so puzzled by a question. Though my 
 sympathies went mainly with the elder sister, I felt sorry 
 for this poor young thing, troubled about so small a 
 matter as a decent dress. Not so small a matter either, 
 when I came to consider ; for I, who had never been so far 
 reduced, could not help feeling how unpalatable such a final 
 decI(;nsion would be to myself 
 
 " And so, by working hard," I said in reply, " you hope 
 to get a new frock ? Well, I will do my best to help you, 
 and we shall surely manage it amongst us." 
 
 And whilst I said this, with an idea that, poor as we were, 
 we might afford to patronize these friendless girls, (the iclea 
 of patronizing anybody was very agreeable to me), I brought 
 into review before me sundry dresses that I had outgrown, 
 and that would sell for very little, and that with very slight 
 alteration might be made up for this child. And then I 
 thought of the profusion at Mrs. Bontoft's, and wondered 
 what became of the superfluities of tlie rich. 
 
 Whilst we were busily at work a very chubby-faced child, 
 a boy of about eight years old, opened the door and peeped 
 in, and seeing me, was about to retreat when Mary called 
 out: 
 
 " Come in, James ; here's a young lady that will be quite 
 glad to see you. lie is such a darling. Miss Marples I" 
 
 I had never seen much of children, and certainly I had 
 never seen a child so beautiful as this one was. Standing 
 for a moment, irresolute whether to advance or retreat, he 
 gave me a full view of his very fair and handsome face ; his 
 noble head with its clustering curls of sunny'bair ; his large, 
 
170 MAEGAKEi; OK, 
 
 liquid bine eyes and pouting lips ; — and making a. auddea 
 dash forwaid 1m flung himself headlong into Mary's lap, 
 dragging her worlt oist of her hands, 
 
 " I'm not going to stand this any longer," he said : " you 
 all make such a pet of me, and it's nothing bat nonsense. 
 I mean to be a soldie?." 
 
 " Qh, he's a brave boy V said Mary, holding his heacJ 
 caressingly -with both bands ; " and you can't think how 
 ^patriotie he is, Miss Marples." 
 
 " Englandi,'' said the child, raising his round face, and 
 holding out bis chubby hand, and elevating his forefinger, 
 " England shall never lie at the proud foot of a eonquerer I 
 Didn't we beat the French at Waterloo ?" 
 
 " We did, love," said Mary, kissing bin*, and her whole 
 heart seemed to be in the caiess — " we did, and we always 
 shall whilst we have such brave fellows as yon are." 
 
 "■Oh yes! it's all very well talking about brave felloes, 
 and kissing me that way I" said the boy. "I'm not going 
 to stand it, I tell you, so be quiet. Women are so silly !" 
 
 He glanced slyly at me out of the comers of his blue eyes 
 as he spoke. 
 
 " Well, I never saw such a little Turk," said Susan. 
 
 The boy letireated to, the end of the room, and stood 
 against the wall with his hands behind him. 
 
 " When I'm a man," he said, I mean to march under the 
 ' flag that braved a thousand years the battle and the breeze I' 
 I shall be a soldier or a sailor ;, I don't know which yet. 
 But I'll let the French see it's true what the song says : — 
 
 * Britaiiiila neesTs no Iralwarks, 
 
 Wo towers along the stettp ; 
 Her msrch is o'er the mountain wave, 
 
 Iler homo is on the deep.' 
 
 Nobody ever conquered us, did they Mary 3" 
 
 "No, love." 
 
 " Now you were both saying last night, while reading the 
 Bible, that fighting was sinful," said Susan. 
 
 " Now you know nothing about it," said the boy, and his 
 baby lip curled with an expression of contempt. " We said 
 a was sinful to quarrel, but not to defend ourselyes. You 
 would look very queer if the French came over some fine 
 
Missing Page 
 
MARGARET ; OB, 
 
 " I do, indeed," I said ; " you will quite please me by 
 reading it." 
 
 The boy hesitated no longer ; he took a Bible from a 
 cupboard shelf, and seating himself cross-legged upon the 
 floor, placed it upon his knee. Then having found the page, 
 he rested his chin upon one hand, and laid the other upon 
 the open book. 
 
 The boy's manner of reading the parable 'impressed me 
 asl had never been impressed before, with its sublimity, and 
 beauty, and pathos. His full and flexible though childish- 
 voice ri-vetted attention of itself : his emphasis-was correct, be- 
 cause he knew and felt what he was reading ; and the so- 
 lemnity of his infant look, and the reverence -with which he 
 evidently bent over the book, were, striking evidences of the 
 power of God's word over the simplest of his creatures. 
 
 " And he arose, and came to his father. But when he was 
 yet a great way off, his father saw him and had compassion, 
 and ran — ' " Here the boy's voice failed him. His face 
 grew pale, and his lip quivered, and his large eyes were 
 swimming in tears. I, too, felt the choking in my thi-oat ; I 
 heard Susan tittering, and felt shocked, and looked at her 
 rebukingly. 
 
 " Well, we ought to feel," said the boy, speaking evi- 
 dently with effort, '-' when we think that this is what God 
 does to every one of us. To you and me, Susan ; and some 
 day we may feel glad to have such a father to turn to. Is 
 it not so, Mary !" 
 
 " It is, darling," said Mary. " But you are more like the 
 other son who never left his father." 
 
 " Nay, I think not," said the boy. " I think I should not 
 speak as he did : but you shall hear." And he read on to 
 the end, and kept his face bent over the book for several 
 minutes, not liking to let us see how powerfully he was 
 afifected. 
 
 " You may understand. Miss Marples,'' said Mary, " why 
 I like to hear James read. He brings out the whole mean- 
 ing of everything. If one cannot feel oneself, there is no 
 getting rid of the child's feeling. It sets us thinking that we 
 are ourselves not quite as we ought to be. I am sure it has 
 been so with me." 
 
PEEJUDICE AT HOME. I'JS 
 
 I could have acknowledged as mucli myself, though I did 
 not. But I thought — perhaps even now God is calling me 
 back to himself through this child. I called him to me, 
 and bent over him with a full heart. 
 
 " You are a sweet boy," I said, " who taught you to read 1" 
 
 " Papa taught me." 
 
 " And who is yom- papa ?" 
 
 The hoy looked wistfully at me for a few seconds and 
 then turned to Mary. , 
 
 " His dear papa is in God's hands," said Mary. " He 
 knows that thgy shall meet again one day, and be happier 
 than they are now." ' 
 
 I understood from this that his father was dead, and felt 
 grieved that I had put the question. 
 
 " Yes," said the boy, " and I mean to do something won- 
 derful to please papa and mamma. I always feel that I 
 shall when I see mamma grieve. You see," he continued, 
 looking down at his tiny feet and then drawing himself 
 up, " you see I am growing a great boy, and ought soon to 
 be doing something." 
 
 " You, poor baby ! What can you do ?" said Mary. 
 
 " Baby !" said the boy, curling his lip again, that's your 
 nonsense, Mary. I'mwoiababy. Why, Ellen isn't a baby, 
 and she's two years younger than I am ; we don't call Lilly 
 a baby. Babies wear long clothes and people nurse them. 
 Come now ! Mr. Smithson says I shall be a man soon, and 
 he'll help me." 
 
 " Well, James, you've all the will to do something, and I 
 hope God will help you." 
 
 " There, now you talk sense, Mary. Of course, God helps 
 everybody. Now, I'll go and see what mamma's doing. — 
 You know I don't like to leave her long, because she frets, 
 and then I talk to her. Shall I see you again ? " he added, 
 turning back as he was going out and addressing me. 
 
 " I hope so, love." 
 
 " Where do you live ?" 
 
 " I live in this house ; only just down stairs." 
 
 " Do you, though !" he said, his face brightening as he 
 came fairly back to me. " Ah, Mary called you Miss Mar- 
 pies ; then you belong to the good old gentleman that used 
 
1 74 MARGAEET ; OB, 
 
 to come up to mamma when she was so ill, montis ago ? 
 I'm so glad, and I'll tell mamma all about it. 
 
 " What a remarkable child he is." I said, as he closed the 
 door behind him. " Does he live in the house ?" 
 
 " In the next room," said Mary, '' with his mother and 
 two sisters, younger than himself. It's a very sad story. — 
 His father was an author, a writer for magazines and news- 
 papers, I think. They lived very decently somewhere in 
 Islington, till difficulties drove Mr. Graham out of his mind, 
 and then his wife and children came here. I tliought her 
 heart was breaking when she first came, eight months ago. 
 I believe a subscription was raised for her ; but friends won't 
 ' do much, and she works hard, poor thing, just as we do, and 
 getting less." 
 
 " And where is her husband ?" I asked. 
 
 " In Bethlehem Hospital. It is a large public institution, 
 and one might think people so afflicted would be treated 
 well in it ; but Mrs. Graham says her husband complains 
 of being dreadfully ill-used, and she feels sure that he is.— 
 It would grieve you to see her sometimes. I'm sure," con- 
 tinued Maiy, suddenly snatching up a corner of her work 
 and putting it to her eyes, " it makes one quite wretched to 
 see what misery there is in the world !" 
 
 Yes ! Mary was in the right place for seeing it. I sat 
 lost in deep thought during several minutes. This outcast 
 state of existence, upon which I was myself entering, ' 
 seemed to have many redeeming points about it. My heart 
 had been more interested; my thoughts more elevated' dur- 
 ing the one hour I had passed in that poor room than during 
 my more than twelve months' sojourn amongst respectable 
 and world-courted people. Here is the balance of good 
 and evil, I thought. Thou bririgest us nearer to thee, O 
 God, by affliction. Here I shall not lose sight of Thee ; 
 here I shall better learn to know myself ! 
 
 I took up the bible which the boy had placed upon the 
 table. On the fly-leaf I found these words written in a 
 small but faif hand : — " From a mother to her fatherless 
 children. May the Lord look-upon them when they have 
 no friend left beside Him. Mary Lester." I turned the 
 leaves over hurriedly and then put the book down. This 
 
PEBMIDICE AT HOME. ItS 
 
 alsBorWag interest ia others was new to me, and I began to 
 feel oppressed by it. I resutaed my work which I had only 
 quitted for a mo.meBt. 
 
 "And yeu," I said, "how long have yo« liv'Cd here?" 
 
 ■" Nearly thr«e years," said Mary, sighimg. 
 
 " It will be three years in March sijice mother died,'" said 
 Susan. " Father died six months before. And see Miss 
 Marples, they took everything froMi us but these few thiug^ 
 and we used to fee so well off, dida't we, Mary ?" 
 
 " My father kept a toy-sh-op, and was m debt whem he 
 died," said Mary. " It was only right, the creditors taking 
 the thiugs, bat jtnn may be sure we found a greai change, 
 losi-ng parents and all at onoe." 
 
 " And you had no friends ? " 
 
 " Not any that woald 4ook t« iis: no 1 " said Maiy, 
 qaietly. 
 
 How -jnafny lie desolate upoti eartli becaase tbose who 
 shovM " look to" them coiiader tlieir poverty a disgrace I 
 At aJi events I was not the only one neglected and -coEt- 
 temaed; in outward circuinstaaoes I was not worse off thaa 
 those who eoald look back upon a, past that ts'ought no 
 >blu^ of sba^xte to tiieir cheeks, no throb of indi^jiatioii to 
 their hearts. 
 
 " But we're not quite witlioat friends," said Sasaa, tossing 
 lier head : " and we don't think to live in tiis way always. 
 Mr. SfliithsoB eomes in to see us vejy often, and he's a fi'iend 
 of Mrs. Graham's, too." 
 
 "Mr. Smithson," said Mary, fixing hei- eyes with an un- 
 easy expression upon Susan, " is a coisiio actor at one of the 
 theatres. He was a friend of Mr. Graham's, and I believe 
 it was chiefly through his means that Mrs. Oraham got help. 
 I have heard her say sa It was little Jaaaes that first made 
 him acquainted with us, and he has certainly been very kind 
 in calling to inquire how wo got on, and sometimes leaving 
 us and Mrs. -Graham a newspaper to read. It is not his fault 
 that we have no time to read." 
 
 " Oh, I always read the newspapers," said Susan. 
 
 "Our poor parents were very religious," continued Mary, 
 " and they had a great objection to plays. It would have 
 grieved them to know that we had even this slight intimacy 
 
1,^6 margaket; oe, 
 
 with a player. But, Miss Marples, when one is left so lonely 
 in the world, it seems only natural to be thankful ior a Uttle 
 kindness, from, whatever source, it comes. Besides, I believe , 
 Mr. Smithsoa.is really a good-hearted man. I hope he is 
 for Mrs. Graham's sake, for he seems to be the only friend 
 she has." 
 
 How soon I had become acquainted with tb? histories of 
 these people; how readily I had acquired the kind of 
 knowledge that , is necessary to a right comprehension of 
 character! Of the Browns, the Wiltons, and the Bbntpfts, 
 I knew no more than met my eye from day to day. They 
 might have all sprung from the same dunghill, and doubtless 
 they did : and in different ways, but with the same aim, they 
 made a struggle to thrive upon it. 
 
 The conclusion of my reflections was,..that in one material 
 respect I had profited by being reduced to the society to be . 
 found in Brooks' Court. Great depravity and horror there 
 was to be met with, no doubt ; but nothing worse than 
 might be found in the highest circles of ^society. If there 
 was a happy medium, this surely was it. I must accept ii 
 with its drawbacks ; and this I was the more inclined to do, 
 because deprivation rather than abject dependence seemed 
 to be one of them. 
 
 And that night, after obtaining Aunt Betsy's consent to 
 my scheme for providing Susan Lester with a decent dress, 
 and having from my grand-father an assurance that he was 
 better, I slept soundly, and had happy dreams, in which little 
 James Grabam- figured very conspicuously. 
 
PEEJUDICB AT HOME. Ill 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 It was some time before I could obtain work, even at 
 such poor remuneration as the Lesters received ; for tbe 
 starving female population of London amounts to some thou- 
 sands, and it speaks well for their first principles that so 
 many amongst them are ready to wear away body and soul 
 in a drudgery that scarcely suffices to keep both together, 
 rather ibdn fall into pauperism, or a life of sin. Whilst my 
 grand-father was slowly recovering strength, it was a grief to 
 him to see how I toiled late and early for less than sixpence 
 a-day. It was grievous to him to keep me in that low neigh- 
 borhood ; and he spoke determinedly about not allowing me 
 to remain there, when he became once more able to exert 
 himself. But besides having a great horror of again going 
 out as a governess, I knew very well that I stood a worse 
 chance than ever of obtaining a situation 'of the kind. I 
 could not apply for a character to any of the persons I had 
 lived with, though I had done my best to please all of them, 
 and I could not expect that my word would be taken in such 
 explanations as I could give. I myself resolved to try for 
 employment in some millinery establishment, where I under- 
 stood as much as nine shillings a-week might be earned, as 
 well as two meals a-day, and the privilege of returning home 
 when I was not required to sit up all night. This was the 
 height of my present ambition ; but I was soon made to 
 feel that it soared too high. Mary Lester, who had herself 
 vainly tried for such a place through some years, assured me 
 that I should not succeed without patronage, as these situa- 
 tions were eagerly sought for, the young ladies filling them 
 holding themselves far above those condemned to work as 
 she did. I resolved tp try, however ; and as Aunt Betsy 
 
 8 
 
178 MAKGABET ; OE, 
 
 had unfortunately plenty of time to spare, not being able 
 to procure constant work, she and I spent many weary 
 hours in trudging to various establishments, not giving up 
 our vain search until compelled by the fear of starvation in 
 the meantime. And in order to understand how precious 
 time is, it is necessary to be reduced to this alternative of 
 earning sixpence a-day, or nothing. Work as hard as we 
 could, my aunt and I earned no more than was sufficient to 
 pay the rent, unless she luckily obtained a day's work out. 
 It was little satisfaction to me to say I was not hungry, and 
 eat as little as possible, for I saw that both my relations did 
 the same, that we were all compelled to do it, and that the 
 one sole satisfaction in the whole matter was the fair pros- 
 pect of our all perishing together, and very speedily. — 
 Jem, who looked in upon us daily, received several commis- 
 sions to dispose of such things as we could best spare ; and in 
 this way I parted with the finery purchased for me, by Mrs. 
 Bontoft. Poor Jem's face lengthened at these increasing 
 proofs of poverty ; and I believe that he frequently robbed 
 himself when he declared himself ready to swear that coals, 
 - potatoes, or bread, were wonderfully cheaper at^ome distant 
 shop, lying conveniently on his dally route, but which it 
 would be quite impossible for Aunt Betsy to attend. If 
 anything could have been more distressing to me than this 
 idea, it was to see my grand-father wandering to and fro in 
 the dingy room, too weak as yet to go out by himself, too 
 far gone in blindness to be able to read, and too much per- 
 plexed by our situation to offer any counsel. There was the 
 additional great grief of knowing that, pined as he was, 
 there was no chance of his health being restored ; and as I 
 sat at my monotonous and profitless work, from early morn- 
 ing until late at night, the old bitterness of heart, and im- 
 patience with Providence, and distrust in God, came back 
 to me. I thought of my grand-father's blameless life, as 
 
 compared with the worldliness of the dean of , and the 
 
 libertinism of Colonel Leigh, and I could not understand 
 why — if these were alike eligible for salvation — all this stray- 
 ing into error and trying in the furnace of affliction should 
 be needed. I felt sure that there was no wisdom in so bur- 
 dening my own mind with these perplexities ; that I could 
 
PKajUDlCE AI HOME. 1^9 
 
 have Wed God better and more if I had been allowed to loathe 
 his oreature,s less; if I could reasonably have entertained one 
 thought of thankfulness for the life forced upon me, whether 
 I liked it or not. 
 
 Gradually we were compelled to understand that these 
 depths of destitution contained a lower deep, to which, in 
 all probability, we should have to descend. We were lodged 
 even magtiificently for our means ; we were not able to pay 
 this high rent, and Jem was eventually applied to, to pro- 
 cure us cheaper lodgings. 
 
 But we dragged on for a wonderfully long time — nearly 
 three months — before we came to this. During that period 
 the necessity for sitting close at work prevented my seeing 
 much of the two sisters, or of Mrs. Graham, though I saw 
 and heard enough to embitter my thoughts still more, and 
 drive me further back from all trust in Providence. Of 
 little James Graham, however, I saw a great deal ;" for not 
 a day passed without his coming down to our room, and he 
 would recite for us his store of patriotic verses, or sit, by 
 the hour together, reading the Bible to my grand-father. I 
 wondered what God- meant to do with this child, whose sym- 
 pathies were so strong for whatever was -good or noble, and 
 whose prospects were so clouded, whose position upon earth 
 was so abject, 
 
 I was one day hastily called up stairs by Susan, who said 
 that Mrs. Graham had been taken ill. Aunt Betsy was out, 
 and I went. I entered the room, and found her in a faint- 
 ing fit. Mary was bathing her face with water, and 
 James was chafing her hands, and Ipoking up to her pite- 
 ously, 
 
 " She will soon be better," said Mary ; " I have often seen 
 her in this way before. Now let Miss Marples take your 
 place, James, and go to your sisters, there^s a good boy." 
 
 " I don't like to leave mamma so," said the boy. 
 
 " But Ellen and Lilly are frightened," said Mary ; " do 
 go and tell them mamma will be better directly." And the 
 Boy left us. " I sent the children into our room, they cried 
 so," continued Mary, as I commenced chafing Mrs. Gra- 
 ham's thin hands ; " she has been to see her husband this 
 
180 MABOAREi; OB, 
 
 morning, and she says they are killing him, and it is just 
 breaking " 
 
 Here Mary broke down, and large tears fell from her eyes 
 upon Mrs. Graham's face. 
 
 " You see it is just breaking her heart," continued Mary, 
 rapidly; "and when one thinks what sweet children those 
 are, it is quite pitiful. She is half starved, besides, poor 
 thing ! If one onlv had a little wine for her — ^but where to 
 get it!" 
 
 I had often thought of the profusion of wine at Mr. 
 Bon toft's when I saw my grand-father's weakness, and re- 
 membered that he, too, was half starved. Yes, it was 
 where to get it for necessity ! I had seen Mrs. Graham be- 
 fore, several times. She was a fair delicate woman, still 
 young, and had evidently been well brought up. There 
 was the curse of refined feelings upon her in the midst of 
 this destitution and helpless endurance. 
 
 Presently She sighed heavily, and opened her eyes, and 
 looked round the room. 
 
 " My children !" she said. 
 
 " They are in my room," said Mary ; "let them stop 
 there till you feel stronger. Miss Marples will wait here, 
 while I make you a cup of tea." 
 
 " Oh, no, no ! she said ; " I feel better now." 
 
 But Mary made me a sign, and left the room, and just 
 as she went out James peeped in, and his mother saw him. 
 
 " My boy !" she exclaimed, extending her arms, and he 
 rushed to her. 
 
 I shall never forget the look of yearning love and deep 
 sorrow with which she uttered those words, " My boy !" 
 
 " My child, that I hoped so much for only a few years 
 back !" she continued, bending over him : " and dear, kind 
 papa, that would have laid down his life for any one of us !" 
 
 " Don't talk in that way, mamma," said the boy, lifting 
 up his swimniing eyes ; " you make me feel so unhappy." 
 
 ." I won't, darling 1" she said ; " you shall not be teased, 
 
 you dear pet ! Mamma will be well soon, and then 
 
 Oh, God !" she continued, with a sobbing sigh, " then wo 
 may do better. I am wasting your time and mine too, Miss 
 Marples," she said, turning to me. 
 
PEBJUDICK AT HOME. 181 
 
 « Don't think of me," I said. " Shall I fetch my work 
 and sit with you ?" 
 
 " You are very good," she said ; " I have met with a deal 
 of kindness : but, oh ; my trouble is heavy." 
 
 As she turned away her face, and I watched its expres- 
 sion of intense agony, I had some difficulty in restraining 
 myself from falling upon her neck, and weeping away some 
 of the pent-up sorrow that lay like lead upon my own 
 heart. 
 
 I went down to my grand-father, and explained how mat- 
 ters stood, and then went with my work to Mrs. Graham's 
 room again, Mary brought in a cup of tea, and then we 
 three sat down at our dreary work together, and James 
 proffered to read to us. The younger children, two pretty, 
 gentle-mannered, little girls, remained with Susan. I had 
 before observed how they could sit playing for hours together 
 in a nook, hungry, and with no toy to entertain them, and ex- 
 tracting amusement out ol their own yet inexhausted spirits. 
 
 As James read, I could not help wondering what we 
 should do if he was not reading — how we should converse 
 together — we whose hearts were all so full of bitterness, and 
 anxiety, and sorrow. There was no topic for us in the wide 
 world ; its pleasures were nothing to us, and we were sink- 
 ing under the terror of its oppression — a terror that froze up 
 our words. There were almost impassable gulfs for all of us 
 to overleap before we could speak hopefully of a ' promised 
 life beyond the grave. That loving mother's thoughts were 
 chained to a world in ■which her children were yet so young 
 — in which they might suffer wrong, and drink deeply of the 
 cup of sorrow, and be driven to the sins of necessity. (There 
 are such sins, ye who live' in silken ease, fenced about by 
 all the proprieties of life, and God is the judge of them !) 
 Mary and -I had a long career of unrequited toil before us, 
 and the imperative wants of every day bound us, like slaves 
 as we were, to the present. 
 
 We were seated thus when a knc^k eame to the door, 
 and Mr. Smithson entered. Mary and I • rose up, and we 
 went into her room. We found Susan reading a newspa 
 per. The two children were evidently happy in their play. 
 
182 MARGARET ; OK, 
 
 " Susan !" said Mary, " do attend to your work, that's a 
 dear." 
 
 " I'm tired of work — nothing but work !" said Susan ; 
 " and I believe yon are all blockheads ! You won't read, 
 and you don't know how the world's going on. There's 
 plenty of peoplb that would help us if they only knew how 
 we suffered. How are they to know anything about it if 
 we don't tell them ? Here's a lord, a real lord, that talks so 
 nicely in this paper about poor people like us ; I wish we 
 could see him, or that you would write to him, Mary ; I'm 
 sure he would help us, and Mrs. Graham too." 
 
 Mary shook her head, but this speech of Susan's helped 
 to mature an' idea that had been germinating in my own 
 mind during the previous two hours. At Mr. Bontoft's I 
 had read many modern works, whose authors seemed to be 
 imbued with the genuine spirit of humanity. I thought 
 that poor Mrs. Graham, the wife of an author so stricken 
 down by the hand of God, had a claim upon these men that 
 they would readily respond to. I said this to Mary then, 
 but she again shook her head. 
 
 " Mr. Smithson is a man of the world, as well as a kind- 
 hearted man in himself," she said ; " you may depend upon 
 it that he has done all that couW. be done in this way. But 
 he will be sure to come in before he goes ; we might men- 
 tion it to him." 
 
 Poor Mary ! how apathetic she -seemed ? how hopeless 
 about everything save drudging on from day to day ! This 
 was common sense, which taught her to expect nothing bet- 
 ter from the world ; Susan and I monopolized all the 
 genius, and there was a wonderful power in it. I even de- 
 termined to speak to this Mr. Smithson myself. 
 
 And Mr. Sniithson presently came in. What a singular 
 face his was ! Ugly and chubby, and with a twist in it that 
 made one side longer than the other ! An excellent comic 
 face it was, no doubt ; but the present expression of thought- 
 fulness sat oddly uponwt. Do what he would, there was a 
 drollery about it that made me consider it especially lucky 
 that none of us were in a mind to laugh. 
 
 " Well, how are you all getting on ?" he said. 
 
 " Much as usual, Mr. Sm.ithson," said Mary. 
 
PREJUDICE AT BOMB. 1 S3 
 
 *' Work, work, eh V he said ; " all flat, stale, and unpro- 
 fitable ? Never mind. Here, you, come and feel in my 
 poekets." 
 
 This was addressed to the two children, who ran up to 
 him and dived into his coat-pockets, and drew forth sundry 
 packets of sweetmeats and biscuits, and ran gleefully into 
 their corner again. 
 
 " So there's no news stirring in your little world ?" said 
 Mr. Smithson, placing his hat upon the table and seating 
 himself, and, to my astonishment, giving his face a twist 
 that sent all the preponderance to the other side of it. 
 " You remain in statu. quo ?" 
 
 " Yes, I believe So," said Ma,ry. 
 
 " No beautiful variety to variegate existence in this world, 
 noted for its changes ? Pshaw ! How ridiculous it is !" 
 
 " What, Mr. Smithson ?" asked Mary. 
 
 " Devil a bit of change do I see, go where I will," said 
 Mr. Smithson. " Nothing but the same penury, and strife, 
 and suffering, the same bloated pride, and pretension, and 
 humbug. Instead of supplying one with wit, the world 
 brings one to one's wit's end ;" and he drew his fingers 
 through his profusion of dark hair in a desperate manner. 
 
 " Poor Mrs. Graham has had another fainting-fit to-day," 
 said Mary. " Can nothing be done for her, sir ?" 
 
 " What the deuce right have you to trouble yourself about 
 Mrs. Graham ?" said the actor, making a grimace. " Why 
 don't you wrap yourself up in your — hem ! Well, I suppose 
 you have nothing comfortable to wrap yourself up in. Naked 
 we came into the world, and naked we shall go out of it ; 
 but it's too bad to be naked all our lives. I say, Susan, look 
 me up that paper." 
 
 " Here it is, sir," said Susan. 
 
 " Anything worth reading in it ?" said Mr. Smithson. 
 
 " Oh, yes 1" said Susan ; " I've been reading the speeches 
 of Lord Marchtown. Isn't he a kind man ?" 
 
 " Lord Marchtown ?" said Mr. Smithson. " A platform 
 lord, all words and smoke. Well, you very green young 
 person, what do you make of him ?" 
 
 '« Oh !" said Susto, tossing her head, " I'm sure if he 
 knew of our troubles Jie would help us." 
 
184 margaebt; or, 
 
 " You are, are you 2" said Mr. Smithson.- "Now, Susan, 
 don't you think I'm a very ugly fellow 1" 
 
 " You're not very handsome, sir !" said Susan, to Mary's 
 evident^ dismay, for she looked up and reddened. 
 
 " Quite the contrary," said Mr. Smithson. " Now if I at- 
 tempted to entertain the town with tragedy, action, and sen- 
 timental songs, the town would cast me off at once. I was 
 born to my vocation, and cannot step out of it. It is just 
 the same with a platform lord, who spouts sentiment and 
 lectures for the people. He is great where he is, and you 
 must let him alone. You won't damage him by attempt- 
 ing to take him out of his place, but you'll be sure to disap- 
 point yourself. If you know of anybody that nobody else 
 ever heard of, just apply to him for sympathy and help, but 
 don't try the dodge on celebrities." 
 
 I thought this a good opportunity to chime in. 
 
 " Mr. Smithson," I said, " considering that poor Mr. 
 Graham was himself an author, don't you think that some 
 of our popular writers would h«lp his wife and children if 
 they knew how destitute they were 2" 
 
 Mr. Smithson turned to ine, with a twist of his face that 
 brought the larger half of it on my side, 
 
 " Oh, that's your particular kind of worship, is it !" he 
 said ; " you make demigods of authors." 
 
 "No I _don't," I said. "I worship nothing human; I 
 have little faith in humanity altogether. I only speak of 
 this as a possibility." 
 
 " Egad, Miss What's your name 2" 
 
 " Miss Marples," said Mary. 
 
 " Miss Marples," continued Mr. Smithson, " you've the 
 right sort of wisdom to begin life with. Distrust is said to 
 be an ungracious thing, but it saves a great waste of feeling. 
 Now, as you concede that authors are only men, I can come 
 to the point at once with you. An author revelling in fame 
 and wealth is not the sort of man to feel for destitution, 
 though he can afford to say a deal about it in books. A 
 poor devil of an author, who can scarcely live himself from 
 day to day, will be much more likely to sympathize and 
 share his crust with you. James Graham, a writer of consid- 
 erable f ower, and a very voluminous writer, too, was little 
 
PREJUDICE AT HOME. 185 
 
 known, as his name seldom transpired. No one could gain 
 any glory by helping him — another great drawback in this 
 world, where people like to have their good deeds known. 
 Besides, there are hundreds of like cases, and the few that 
 will help cannot do much. Well, the fact is, a great many 
 amongst us are born to a life of suflEering, and we must fight 
 through it as well as we can." 
 
 Everything I heard corroborated the fact that the rich 
 and the middle classes, while they make use of the poor for 
 their own convenience and of necessity, hold them aloof, as 
 something loathsome to the sight and touch ; and, much 
 stronger in theii' prejudices than any slave-holder ever was, 
 (for he does not shrink with horror and disgust from the 
 human chattel that he buys and sells), produce in England 
 such a wide line of demarkation — not between vice and vir- 
 tue, ignorance and knowledge, talent and imbecility, but be- 
 tween poverty and wealth, as is met with nowhere else on 
 the broad earth amongst creatures of the same spirit and 
 clay. I cannot be solitary in my belief that this system is 
 highly favorable to the growth of infidelity. The pauper 
 who cannot learn from parish chaplains that he may one 
 day sit down in the kingdom with a lord or dukcj or, to 
 strain a point, even with a prince or king, may by chance 
 seize- the idea that Christ will be less fastidious ; but the 
 degradation of his state has eaten into his soul and made it 
 abject, so that he entertains more reverence for, and more 
 fear of, a wealthy and influential man in the world, than he 
 possibly can entertain towards God. It is the same with 
 the slaves of both sexes, who fancy that they are indepen- 
 dent because they are free to drudge, as no slave ever did, 
 f<ar a pittance too meagre to sustain half a life, or to lie 
 down in their garrets and cellars and die at once. 
 
 I only saved myself from this state by refusing to bow to 
 anything. That likeness to God within myself sufficed to 
 me ; I was not to be subdued by the craving necessities of 
 the body ; I would not voluntarily lie down under the 
 wheels of this great moral Juggernaut, whose victims might 
 not rejoice in the. sacrifice they were compelled to make. 
 
 Starvation and contempt only served to make my resist- 
 ance stronger. I had enough of both to try my powers of 
 8* 
 
188 HARGAKET ; OK, 
 
 endurance. In fhe month of March, in spite of every draw- 
 back, my grand-father gained sufficient strength to be able 
 to walk out. He renewed the subject of my' obtaining 
 another situation, and I saw that he was determined to send 
 me from home if possible. In this matter I was compelled to 
 yield, for many reasons, independent of the fact that I never 
 had any inclination to resist what I found to be my grand- 
 father's decided will. Considering how little I could earn at 
 needle-work, it was easy enough to prove to me that my ab- 
 sence would not make those left behind worse off, whilst I 
 might at least stand a chance of helping them. My wardrobe 
 had decreased and was growing shabby, and it was evident 
 that if anything in this way was to be done there was no time 
 to be losti Once more my grand-father and myself proceeded 
 to the register oflSoe, having made a great effort to obtain 
 money, and I received the address of a lady who wanted a 
 governess to instruct five young children, and who bargain- 
 ed for piety and humility as indispensable qualifications. 
 Nothing daunted by this, but with a misgiving that this 
 pious lady would be more difficult to deal with than any of 
 the others, I set out for her residenqe, accompanied by my 
 grand-father, on the following morning. We had agreed 
 that I should refer to Mrs. Wilton for my character, for as I 
 had given her entire satisfaction, except in the one respect 
 of not being able to clothe myself out of nothing, we both 
 thought it possible that she would not say anything to pre- 
 vent me from getting another place. I had a suspicion 
 which I kept to myself, that Mrs. Bontoft's interested patron- 
 age had injured me in this quarter ; but I had committed 
 no absolute wrong in accepting an offer that promised well 
 at a time when I was quite free and almost penniless. "• 
 
 Mrs. Reynolds, the lady upon whom I called, resided in 
 Portland Place. There was no evidence of self-denial about 
 this abode of piety, which appeared to be sumptuously 
 furnished, or in the gaudy livery of the servants, or in the 
 luxurious dress of the lady herself. I underwent a strict 
 examination, especially with regard to my religious princi- 
 ples, and here I could assure her that I had been strictly 
 brought up to the Church. This lady stated her terms to 
 be sixteen pounds a year, out of which I was to pay for my 
 
PBEJUDICE AT HOME. 187 
 
 washing. Still, scarcely sufficient to provide me witli decent 
 clothing, and the great hope of my heart was as far from 
 being realized as ever, I gave my reference, and was desired 
 to call on the following morning. 
 
 On the following morning, when the footman opened the 
 door, I fancied his look portended no good. He left me 
 standing in the passage while he went to announce my arri- 
 val, and presently Mrs. Reynolds walKed down stairs. She 
 paused at some distance from me, and surveyed me with a 
 look of virtuous indignation. 
 
 " I am really astonished, J'oung woman," she said, " that 
 you should have had the assurance to refer me to Mri;. Wil- 
 ton. She tells me that she found you very deceitful and 
 unthankful, that she raised you from a state of great pover- 
 ty, and that you requited her by worming yourself into the 
 confidence of her friends, and spreading reports about her 
 as false as they were scandalous. I don't want to hear any 
 reply ; an attempt to justify such conduct could only be 
 worse than the conduct itself. I am satisfied that I have 
 had a lucky escage. John, open the door." 
 
 The lady swept away before I could make any reply. 
 The servant, who had stood by all the time, opened the door, 
 and I had nothing »for it but to walk out. If I had not 
 stood convicted, I had fe'ft. degraded by this unexpected at- 
 tack ; and the fierce passions that lay slumbering in my 
 heart were roused into a tempest of wounded pride and in- 
 dignation against those whose position gave them, an ad- 
 vantage over me which they were so ready to use ungener- 
 ously and uncharitably, and without allowing me a chance 
 for self-help. No wonder there is so much servility and 
 hypocrisy in England, when it is well known that the testi- 
 mony of a superior is all-powerful, whether right or wrong, 
 unless the matter becomes public, and decorum demands that 
 justice take its course. Even this latter is not always the 
 case. As for me, what did these women care whether they 
 cast me forth to starvation or to sin ? With Mrs. Bontoft 
 and Mrs. Brown I should have fared no better ; the one 
 would have enlarged upon my impertinence, and the other 
 on my vulgarity and deceit. 
 
 The greatest agony in all this was having to explain to 
 
1S8 MAEGARET ; OE, 
 
 my grand-father. As we walked along I softened the ac- 
 count as well as I could, while wishing to impress upon him 
 the uselessness of seeking further for a similar situation. 
 This was scarcely needed, as we had neither money nor time 
 to waste in the search. 
 
 " God help us !" said my grand-father, after ]-emaining 
 silent several minutes ; "this has been an evil place to us!" 
 
 And what other place in broad England would have been 
 better? It was the fault of a system, not of a particular 
 
 spot ; had we fared any better at ■_ 3 What was to be 
 
 done next ? That was the question, and' none of us knew 
 how to answer it. I returned to such work as I could get 
 of necessity. Aunt Betsy labored at the same drudgery, 
 rarely being able to get anything else to do. Our clothes 
 and everything else belonging to us were disappearing fast, 
 and we knew that we were rapidly approaching a state of 
 utter destitution. 
 
 I had often thought of uncle Stephen during these long 
 and painfid months of our absence from him, and contrasted 
 his uniform and disinterested friendship with what I had met 
 generally from the world. I did not see that Christianity 
 made people better ; the most rigid church-goers were the 
 prosperous, who seemed to be uniformly selfish, and over- 
 bearing, and vain-glorious ; and those accounted as pillars 
 of the church were the least charitable and gracious of all. 
 If I respected what I saw was good in my grand-father, I 
 could not help being aware that his principles chiefly served 
 to make him a more easy prey to the vicious and the power- 
 ful, and I turned with impatient disdain from the thought 
 of following in his course. This spiritual disobedience, which 
 I could not help, was not accompanied by any outward act 
 of rebellion. Under any circumstances, I would not have 
 renewed my intercourse with Uncle Stephen without my 
 grand-father's sanction. As his name was never mentioned 
 amongst us, I had little hope that one who dreaded the eifect 
 of his principles more than poverty and death would ever 
 remove the decree that kept us asunder. 
 
 But all this served to convince me that my grand-father 
 was short-sighted as well as weak-minded. Why would he 
 not understand that I was in greater danger of being driven 
 
PREJITDICB AT HOME. 189 
 
 to infidelity by my commimioation with Christians, than I 
 could have been by any mere assailing of Christianity from 
 Uncle Stephen ? The separation, too, from this eai'ly friend 
 gave the charm of distance to all that had been amiable and 
 attractive in his character, softening down its more rugged 
 aspects, and drawing me towards himself, if not his prin- 
 ciples, more and more. 
 
 Early in March Mrs. Graham's husband died. Mr. Smith- 
 son, who saw him the dav before his death, declared it to be 
 his conviction that he had died from the effects of ill-usage. 
 He asserted that he had seen his body covered with bruises, 
 the effect of blows, and that he had threatened to expose 
 the servants of the institution, who had laughed at and 
 defied him. Whether this harrowing statement was all true 
 or not, it had its destined* effect upon me. I more than 
 ever loathed a country in which such atrocities could be 
 perpetrated by the strong against the weak ; where usage 
 rendered remonstrance availless ; and in which the emptiest 
 forms of religion served to screen iniquities that the heathen 
 and the savage never dreamed of. Under the same roof 
 where I dwelt there was agony that I could not bear to 
 witness. I was a coward when looking upon distress that I 
 could not relieve, sorrow that I could not minister to. Both 
 Mrs. Graham and James had clung to a hope that the 
 husband and father would eventually be restored to them, 
 and I shrank from the details that Aunt Betsy brought me 
 from time to time of their overwhelming and wordless grief. 
 I did all that I cotJld do ; I sat two days and nights work- 
 ing incessantly, unable to think of sleep, not feeling the 
 want of it. Aunt Betsy, to her honor, and my grand-father 
 too, devoted themselves to the desolate woman. About one 
 o'clock on the second morning, whilst Aunt Betsy was yet 
 up stairs and my grand-father lay sleeping in the closet, the 
 door of our room was opened, and some one entered. I did 
 not lift my eyes from my work ; I knew that, whatever was 
 coming, it would come soon enough for me. I did not even 
 stir when I was aware that some one sat down near me and 
 breathed heavily. 
 
 "I believe I shall hang myself some day ; I see no help 
 for it," said a voice that I recognized to be Mr, Smithson's, 
 
190 maroaret; ob, 
 
 " The misery up yonder is enough to make one hate life. 
 Miss Marples, are you listehing to me ?" 
 
 I lifted iny head and looked at him, and turned to my 
 work again. 
 
 " I have been talking to Mary," he continued, " and now 
 I must talk to you. You are in the same house with these 
 poor creatures ; you all sympathize with them ; and I have 
 no one else to trust to. To-morrow I am compelled to go 
 into the country to fulfill an engagement. I'll tell you 
 exactly how the case stands. When poor Graham first fell 
 into this state, overtasked by anxieties and incessant mental 
 labor, a few amongst those who had known him contributed 
 from their hard earnings a weekly sum for the relief of his 
 wife and children. One by one these contributors have 
 fallen off, for months have elapsed, and most of them are 
 needy men. I have myself a wife and seven children, and I 
 cannot keep out of debt. You must know that Mrs. Graham 
 could not keep herself and her children by needle-work, 
 even if she had health, and my opinion is, that she will nevar 
 recover this blow. Now it seems a hard thing to say, but 
 it must be said — they must all go into the workhouse." 
 
 My work dropped from my hands and I looked up. 
 
 " What ! that dear boy ?" I said. 
 
 Mr. Smithson turned his head away and blew his nose. 
 
 " Yes," he said, " that dear boy. God bless him ! he's a. 
 noble little fellow, and I love him as if he was my own : but 
 what can I do ? I've been speaking to the parish authorities 
 about them to-day ; and to-morrow, I expect, they will be 
 looked after. Don't drop your head in that despairing 
 manner. Miss Marples; I look to you to set an example of 
 firmness. As to poor Mary, she is quite prostrated. You 
 see how this unhappy lady and her children will need to 
 be sustained. As to rae, I promise before God, as I did to 
 hej to-night, that I will never lose sight of her children. 
 ,You may think that mine is a hard task when you come to 
 consider that I am compelled to act the part of a buffoon 
 every night for the amusement of the public with the burden 
 of these thoughts upon me. Unless we are made of stefn, 
 enduring stiiff, we may as well lie down and die at once." 
 
 " I cannot see them," I said ; " I cannot see her or James." 
 
PMJUDICE AT HOME. 191 
 
 " This is a weakness that I did not expect from you," he 
 said ; " it is cruel to them. It is better to go where they 
 are going than to live here and starve, or be turned into the 
 streets. You see the alternative. Something may be done 
 hereafter : God knows ?" he continued, pushing his fingers 
 through his hair, and making an odd, buzzing noise with hig 
 lips. " When they are yonder, Miss Marples, it would cheer 
 me very much to know that they were sometimes visited ; 
 it would cheer them. If only for the sake of that dear boy, 
 say that you will go. He loves you very much." 
 
 I felt a strong inclination to weep, but heart and brain 
 seemed alike dried up. 
 
 " I promise you," I said ; I could not say anything more. 
 
 " God bless you 1" said Mr. Smithson, rising hastily, and 
 extending his hand. " I don't know when we shall meet 
 again. I shall be some months absent, and Mary will write 
 to me. I shall hope to find you here, but " 
 
 Se wrung my hand, passed out of the room, and I never 
 saw him again. 
 
 I had passed about two hours more alone when the door 
 was again opened, and Uttle James came hastily forward, 
 and flung his arms around me, and buried his face in my 
 dress. I threw my work down and drew him closer to- 
 wards me, 
 
 I had not seen him before since we had heard of his 
 father's death. 
 
 " Dear boy !" I said, " you must be a man, indeed, now, 
 and console your mother !" 
 
 He lay heavily upon me for several minutes, neither weep- 
 ing nor speaking. 
 
 " How came you to "be up at this hour, James ?" I said ; 
 " it must be three o'clock." 
 
 " I've been to bed" said James, lifting up his face, that 
 was very hot &,nd flushed ; " I've been sleeping in Mary's 
 room with Susan, and Ellen, and Lilly. No, not sleeping ; 
 I've been waking aijii thinking there. I thought I should 
 like to go and kiss ma again', so I got up and dressed myself. 
 I kissed all them, too^you know who I mean ; and then I 
 went into ma's room and kissed her. Mary was asleepj 
 there, but your aunt was sitting up, and she scolded me, and 
 
192 MARGARET j OR, 
 
 said I must try to sleep. But I can't sleep, Margaret — (I 
 had taught him to call me Margaret.) I kissed ma again, 
 and she did not notice me, though her eyes were wide 
 open, and she did not speak a word. You'll remember and 
 tell mamma that I kissed her, Margaret." 
 
 I thought the child's mind was wandering. 
 
 " You shall go to bed now, darling," I said, " and to-mor- 
 row I will talk to you. Come, let me see you up stairs, 
 James ; you will be ill." 
 
 " Margaret !" said the boy, suddenly starting from me, 
 and standing erect, and throwing his head back proudly, " I 
 know what they have all been talking about — ^Mary, and 
 your aunt, and Mr. Smithson. I heard Susan say we were 
 going to the workhouse. You won't say it's not true, Mar- 
 garet, because you know it is. But they'll never get me 
 into the workhouse, Margaret." 
 
 " My dear boy !" I said, holding out my arms towards 
 him, but he put them back. 
 
 " Listen to me,'! he said ; " Mary does nothing but cry, 
 and nobody will listen to me. For papa's sake, for mamma's 
 sake, I won't go to that place. I am old enough to do 
 something for myself. I can go errands, I can do work, 
 and there is plenty of work to do. I can do anything but 
 go to that place, — anything but leave you all, Margaret !" 
 
 And he came to me again, and clasped his arms round my 
 neck, and put his soft cheek to mine. 
 
 I held him in a long embrace ; at the moment I forgot 
 everything beside himself. Oh, my God ! how much I had 
 learned to love that child ! 
 
 " Margaret," he said at length, raising his sweet face, 
 -" where is your grand father ?" 
 
 " He is asleep, love." 
 
 " In there ?" he said, pointing to the closet. 
 
 "Yes, love." 
 
 " Can't I kijs him ?" 
 
 " Not now, darling ; you shall when he awakes in the 
 morning." 
 
 " Nay, but now, Margaret. I have a fancy to kiss him. 
 You call me a pet, and you won't humor me 1 See ! I'll 
 just go in on tiptoe, and I won't wake him. Shan't I ?" 
 
PUBJUDICH AT HOME. l93 
 
 There was no resisting him. I allowed him to go, and 
 he went and came back to me. 
 
 " I have kissed him and he did not stir," he said, speak- 
 ing in a low tone. " Do you know, Margaret, when I think 
 of heaven, and I o%n do, I always seem to see your grand- 
 father there — as if he was there already: that's silly, you 
 know, but I can't 'help it." 
 
 "You will meet him in heaven, darling!" I said: and at 
 the moment I spoke as I thought. How strangely I wav- 
 ered betwixt that heaven and this earth ! 
 
 " Now I must go," said James. " How cold it is, Mar- 
 garet! isn't it ? Kiss me again." 
 
 I held him again in a long embrace. It wrung my heart 
 to hear him say so little about what had evidently aifected 
 him powerfully ; it was touching to see how he tried to feel 
 as well as appear brave. 
 
 " Good night !" he said. Ji You will remember what I 
 said to you, and that I have given you a dozen kisses." 
 
 I took the candle and went out upon the landing with 
 him, and told him to go to bed directly, for he shivered, I 
 held the light up, and Watched him disappear at the bend 
 of the stairs. Then I listened tjU I lost the sound of his 
 small feet as he ascended higher. 
 
 It was a raw, cold morning, and I, too shivered as I re- 
 entered the room. I drew together the atom of fire in the 
 grate, and brought ray chair closer and resumed ray work. 
 I was glad that I had seen this child, yet -I felt a strange 
 uneasiness about him. I wondered if he would resist being 
 taken to the workhouse, and how we should all bear to see 
 force used if he did. Then I wondered if such a luxury as 
 I coveted with my whole soul — the luxury of rescuing this 
 family from a fate dreadful to all of them — ^had ever been 
 understood and appreciated by those possessing the means 
 of gratifying themselves and helping others. Did the hun- 
 dreds of like cases of which Mr. Smithson had spoken sup- 
 ply a solitary instance of this union of earnest sympathy, 
 and power, and enjoyment ? 
 
 I did not sit down to bewail what appeared to be inevita- 
 ble; I was proud, and readily excited, to resentment. I 
 contemplated with indignant impatience this system," ia- 
 
Ip4 MAEGARET ; OB, 
 
 vplvipg a two-fold ssfferiirg, (Wfey .was 1 cursed .tfitb- t&is 
 powCT of feeling for other — I, that bad no means to. belp 
 .ijtieni or myself? 
 
 In. the oaidst of .mavij bitter tliongltts, my Bneasiness 
 aliOBt little JaiD6s was uppermost. Ipoitild no-t feel sure 
 ,,th,at be bad gone to feed again, and I was pretty eertaintb^t 
 he would not sleep. I fancied bim sitting opon tbe,atair3> 
 nil tjie coM and dartnesa, brooding over yth&i was to happen 
 ,Tybea daylight came ; or listening at his jaaotber's door, 
 anixioBS to know whether sBe, revived or spofee. t I had 
 ^learn^d. from Aunt Betsy that she hadfaDen jntoa Knd of 
 »tUrpor, and a|^ared indifferent to everything that, wept on. 
 ., I sat tormenting myself . in this way, biit I "resisted- the im- 
 pulse that would have led me to go and look after James. 
 " I ana teriBented, enojrgh,"' I said ; " why. should I troajjje 
 myself further 3 If God can see this cbiM, aad under- 
 stand what he suffers, and. must sujGEer, and leave him with- 
 ©«rthelprl caa do the sa,me;" I, shall be following a gre^t 
 .example, if not a good one ; I will n&t aid Fate in this de- 
 , termiaation to keep me down L" 
 
 if any sleek, imimpassioned in(Jjvidnal,,pDe of the com- 
 fertable growths of prosperity, should shrink^ at .Jhese 
 thoughts as impious, I can still, say that I consider them 
 spmethiBg better tjian bis soulless apathy. .Tbe_.genn of 
 nobler aspirations and gentler feeliMp was in them ; if far 
 from beaven, they weye^still farther fioraj the, grovelling sel- 
 fishness of earth. 
 
 i'sat till tbe day broke ; and it, was not. till I felt my jSn- 
 gers too benombed to work' readily, that I found, rny, fire 
 'had gone out. I was busy lighting it, when Aunt Betfy 
 came in. 
 ' ^' Is James here 2" she said. 
 
 "No.;' isnVhe' up stairs?" 
 
 '' He's not with the children ; I've just been to look at 
 them. Have you seen nothing of .him ?" 
 
 "He was with me two or three hours ago, Oh,:aunt, wh^it 
 " has" become of him ?" 
 
 ,*; Keep- quipt," said my annt; " I'll jgst go , dpwn and in- 
 ^quire.*' 
 ' jHe^^^J^jew^no one_49wn^staira,^nd-I ^had little ;hogei that 
 
PREJ^TDICK AT HOME. 195 
 
 ' shffwom'ld find him there. I forgotithat I was cold, alm'6st 
 that I was wretched. I felt that it would be a happiness to 
 ■ me' if she found him. I leaned over the banister, breathless 
 with anxiety. 
 
 Aunt Betsy returned. She could hear nothing of him. 
 I told her what he had said to me, and the truth flashed 
 upon us both at once. 
 
 " Why didn't you look after him when he said that ?" she 
 exclaimed. "God help the child ! what can have become 
 of him «" 
 
 No idea of his intention had struck me when lie sp'oke ; 
 I had burthened myself with profitless thoughtsjthat shut 
 out truth from the present altogether. Now I was bowed 
 down by a terrible remorse and-anxiety. 
 
 " Is Susan awake ?" I said. " She and I had better go 
 to Jem, and tell him to make inquiries in the neighbor- 
 hood." 
 
 " Do so," said my aunt, " and I'll wake grand-father." 
 
 I threw on my bonnet and shawl, and hurried up stairs. — 
 Susan was dressing herself, audi the two children were both 
 awake. 
 
 " Where's- James ?" said Ellen. 
 
 " He will come presently," I said. " Susany I want to 
 -speak with you." 
 
 I drew her outside the door, and told her what we feared 
 bad happened. She was not withoiit feeling,' for she began to 
 cry, and told me she would accompany me directly. I went 
 -down stairs, aiid waited for her. Presently we proceeded 
 'together to Jem's cellar, and he, always ready to enter into 
 a tale of distress, .promised' to find the boy if he was to be 
 found in London. 
 
 It was a dreary feeling to me, returning to the house that 
 did not contain him. The idea of his being lost in the 
 world , was terrible ; death would have been preferable to 
 this ; and I thought that, under any circumstances, I could 
 never know happiness if he was not found. 
 
 The day wore on. Aunt Betsy assured me that this new 
 calamity would not affect Mrs. Graham, who seemed insen- 
 fiible to everything. 
 
106 MAEGARET ; OR, 
 
 " The mercy of the Lord !" said my grand-father. " He 
 is very good to us !" 
 
 I thought this aa odd kind of mercy. I heard him with 
 impatience as I thought of the certain suffering of the 
 child. 
 
 Early in the day a workhouse official came to fetch this 
 family. My dislike to mere looking upon suffering kept me 
 aloof ; but I caught a glimpse of the pale, feeble woman, 
 as they carried her down ; and I kissed the children, and 
 and promised to come and see them, and to bring James 
 with me if possible. 
 
 CHAPTEE X. 
 
 Three or four weeks passed and nothing was heard of 
 James, and his mother had died in the meantime. In the 
 meantime, too, our affairs became more desperate. I can- 
 not tell what prosperity may do in the way of hardening, 
 but I do know that adversity and suffering may render us 
 callous to much. This perpetual punishment roused my 
 rebellion, and I would not help fatfe to crush us down. I 
 had no idea of resignation, which appeared to me to be 
 nothing more than an acquiescence in evil. " There is noth- 
 ing for it but to be indifferent," I said ; " what does it mat- 
 ter hov? we get through this life, which we did not seek V 
 It became clear that we could no longer afford to pay so 
 high a rent, and Jem was applied to, to know if we could not 
 procure cheaper lodgings. He looked ruefully at us when 
 this question was put. Our present lodging was cheap, con- 
 sidering the accommodation it afforded. We required^two 
 rooms, and in the confusion of our trouble we had ventured 
 to hope what was unattainable. 
 
 " I know what you might do," said Jem, " but you 
 wouldn't like it." 
 
 He was urged to speak. His proposition was, that my 
 grand-father should sleep with him in his cellar, in which 
 
PREJUDICE AT HOME. 197 
 
 case he could find a small room for my aunt and myself for 
 three shillings a week. When we considered that Jem 
 sl(-pt upon a heap of straw, my aunt and I remonstrated 
 jijjainst tliis ; but my grand-father overruled us, and it was 
 determined that it should be so. 
 
 We gave notice to leave our present abode, and Jem pro- 
 cured us another lodging. It was some distance off, and I 
 one day expressed regret at leaving Mary. 
 
 " It won't make much ditference, Margaret," said Aunt 
 Betsy ; " Mary will soon be in a better country, and you 
 would not see her much longer if you stopped here." 
 
 " You don't mean to say that Mary is dying, aunt ?" 
 
 " She is, though ; and a blessed thing, too, for her : what 
 has she got to live for ?" 
 
 I CO aid not understand the blessedness of being allowed 
 one fervid glimpse of hfe, and sickening at it, and turning 
 away with thankfulness to die. What was there that I 
 could understand ? 
 
 Two nights before we quitted the house, I lay restlessly 
 beside Aunt Betsy, unable to sleep. I thought of all the 
 early instruction I had received, and of which I hadnever been 
 able to make anything. I was particularly puzzled by the 
 injunction to love even our enemies, and yet not set our af- 
 fections upon earthly things. I was singularly blinded not 
 to comprehend that an enemy had an immortal -spirit, in 
 whose welfare God allowed me to feel a common interest 
 with himself. I was troubled, and in darkness and my 
 thoughts were very bitter, when I heard a hurried step up- 
 on the stairs, and some one stopped at our door and knocked 
 loudly. I called to inquire who it was, and Susan answered 
 me, — 
 
 " It-is me. Mary is very ill, and I wish you would coma 
 up to her." 
 
 I hurried on a dress and shawl, and accompanied Susan 
 up stairs. Aunt Betsy promising to follow us. Susan, who 
 had a light, seemed very much alarmed ; as we approached 
 the door she stopped me. 
 
 " Would you mind going in alone ? Mary frightened ma 
 so^ Look : she woke me, making such a dreadful noise in 
 her throat ; and when I got a light she stared at me and 
 
19S i MAE&ARKT-; OK, 
 
 saidj'i ' Oh, Susan, it's hard ioi die !' Then I raa down to y oun 
 I can't go in again yet." 
 
 I took the candle; from her and went in -alone. I caught . 
 a glimpse, ofrthe' wbiteifaeej and the silence struck a fore- 
 boding chill to my heart. I lapproached closely and bent 
 overiher. Her eyes were wide open and fixed upward ; her 
 lipfe Jslighiiy ,'apartj:,showing the white, glistening, teeth ; her 
 hands firmly clenched. I placed the back of my hand upon 
 her imouth. No breath came, and. the lips were cold though 
 her cheek was warm. I was aware^that I stood, for the first : 
 time, in the; presence of death. 
 
 I was awed, but not terrified ; involuntaiily I knelt down 
 by) the/ bedsideiand buried my face in my handsk Her death 
 appeared very sudden to me, who had: never observed an 
 change in her. Was the young, spirit ' yet hovaring, over 
 that poor room, or with the sorrow had all the remembran- 
 ces of earth passed away from, it ? 
 
 Aunt Betsy came in, and, without speaking, she closed ■ 
 the girl's eyes and crossed the clenched hands over the bo- 
 som; 
 
 " Go down now,'' she said, in a hushed tone. Susan is 
 frightened. She can sleep with you., I shall stop here. 
 I can do all, that is needed for this poor clay myself.'' 
 
 I rose up, and bending for an instant over the dead, I 
 kissed the pale i cheeks and forehead., Then I went. down to 
 SusaUi;: Her grief was very clamorous, and to the last she 
 reftised:to look uponihei sister again : death seemed to fright, 
 ten hen On the. afternoon of the follojving day a pauper 
 coffin was brought, and .at night Mary?& remains were, carried 
 away. 
 
 I looked over her papers, and found several letters from 
 Mb.;; Smithsoa,;, which I had seen before^ They related 
 chiefly to James for whom he had advertised repeatedly: 
 without any result. I wrote informing him of Mary's death 
 and; gave him out new address. 
 
 Susan accompanied us, and remained with us for a time, 
 for she could not bear to enter her own room, even after her 
 sister's body was carried out of it. We were all anxious 
 about this girl, whose violent grief soon subsided; leavdng 
 hocmore thoughtless thgnbefore; We in vain itiieiito keep . 
 
PREJTJBiCB AT HOME 199- ' 
 
 hef to tCT wort'; uppa eonae pretext or otlier she woidd go 
 out;, and at the end of a ^iveek she informed iis that another giri 
 had agreed to live' with her and pay half the rent. My grand- 
 father' Eiade io^cfairies into' the charaeter of this giri, and 
 fintiifig that it was altogether disreputable he remoaslrated ' 
 ■with Susan, who defeadied herself very boldly, 
 
 "I'm not going to work myself to ■d«at3i, as Maffy did,^ 
 she said. " The worfd ttaiite bo bettw of us for that. I 
 won't fee idotked m rags ail ' my life, and half starved ; and 
 nobody* has any right to' s^y anything if I eaa better my- 
 self." 
 
 It' was,' iffideed, a terrMe thiag for a y<s>ung girl left altwe 
 in the world to look forward to a life of iaoessant toil and 
 struggle £91 what dixi not suffice to ke^ sout and bodj to- 
 gether. It was -still worse *o M'liatoa career of sha^e arid, 
 cef taia gi'eater misery,' Tliese ei^erienees were stumbling- 
 blocks ia my wkj. I thought of the piousparemts, who had 
 jnad^ a pet of Ais girl ; of Mary,wbo h*d' watched <w&e 
 lier with such sc^ieatude. It «eem6d a mo(&ery to tdl me 
 that tiiese, the lost, were happy, while this object of tiieir 
 solicitude was allowed to cast away aii their oounsel and 
 rush headlong int<S a life of degradation and sin. 
 
 Two or three times after this Sasaa visited us, dressed in 
 taVdry finery and bolder ia mannei' thaa ever. The stent 
 rebuiks she Met did not suit her, and we necessarily lost 
 sight of one another. We had lost sight, too, of all those 
 towards whom we IwkI beea -drawfl hyeS^mg ^catfs of sytepa^' 
 thy ; sorrow, and difficulty, aad privation seiamed to lay 
 waste with tho speed of a teoipest, aad once more w^ stood 
 aloue upon the earth,' 
 
 Alone, •except for poor Jem ; and how kind he was 1 He 
 still contrived to get a little life out of us for hiinsel^ though 
 what witih hard work, and poor fare, aad aiixiety, we had 
 aot much worth calling life left for ourselves. At a time of 
 great diffi<ailty, and as a last resource, I applied for a place 
 of all- work at' a neighboring shop, and was dismissed with 
 the brief iatiuiation that my looks were against me,- 
 
 In what respect they were against me I had aot been 
 Informed. I felt more humiliated by this repulse than I had 
 ever been before, though I did not know why. Was I too 
 
2Q0 MARGARET ; OR, 
 
 young, or too delicate-looking, or too well dressed, or was 
 there something worse in my appearance ? It was not vani- 
 ty that made me feel abashed, almost frightened. With 
 everything else against me, it seemed hard that my looks 
 should be against me too. Shortly afterwards I fancied I 
 found the solution to this mystery. 
 
 Neither Aunt Betsy nor myself could find anything bet- 
 ter to do than the ill-paid needlework, and we generally sat 
 up at it half the night. One morning early I missed her 
 from my side, and looking up I saw her extended at full 
 length upon the floor. I went to her instantly, and spoko 
 to her, but she did not answer. She was lying on her face, 
 and I tried to lift her. But she was too heavy for me. I 
 thought she was dead. * 
 
 As fast as my trembling fingers would permit I dressed 
 myself, and went out of the room. I knocked at the first door 
 I came to, but it was very early in the morning and no one 
 answered me. I ran down stairs and knocked at another 
 door, and a man's voice called out, " What's the row ?" 
 
 I hastily explained how matters stood, and begged that 
 some one would go up stairs with me. The man promised 
 that his wife should follow me directly, and I went back. In 
 a few minutes several women entered the room, for human ex- 
 tpmity will readily excite human curiosity, if nothing more, 
 though I do believe that the poor are generally willing to 
 help one another. Aunt Betsy was lifted upon the bed, and 
 all declared that she was stiU liying, though" quite insensible. 
 Some said that she had had an attack of paralysis ; others, 
 that it was a fit of apoplexy. I asked if there *a8 a doctor 
 living near, and begged that one might be sent for. 
 
 " The doctors hereabouts don't like to come to poor folks, 
 if they're not paid something beforehand," said one of the 
 women. " Have you any tin ?" 
 
 Guessing that tin meant money I wrung my hands, and 
 said I had none. " Good God 1" I said, " she surely will not 
 be allowed to perish — some one will come to her?" 
 
 "We must have the parish doctor," said another woman ; 
 " here, I'll go an' fetch him myself," and she went out. 
 
 " Blow the doctors !" said a man, who put his head in at 
 
PREJUDICE AT HOMK. 201 
 
 the door. " The woman '11 be dead afore thou gets back. 
 I'll go and see if old Snelling won't come." 
 
 As far as lay in their own power, these poor and evident- 
 ly coarSK people gave us help. One of the women went for 
 my grand-father, and before he arrived Aunt Betsy opened 
 her eyes. I spoke to her, but she did not seem to know me; 
 and we soon ascertained that the use of her right side was 
 gone, the hand and arm lying quite as if dead. Her speech 
 was gone too, but she made odd sounds, and struggled to 
 get up, or to push lis away with all her remaining strength. 
 My grand-father was the first to arrive, and he bent Over 
 lier with mute sorrow. The man who had been for a doctor 
 returned to say that old Snelling refused to come ; he said 
 it was a case for the parish.: and when the woman who 
 went for the parish doctor arrived, it was only to say that 
 he would corae presently. 
 
 It was late in the afternoon when he at length did arnve. 
 If this had been a case requiring immediate help, here was 
 anotlier instance of the power of poverty to crush us from 
 the face of the earth. He examined her very coolly, and 
 declared that there was no hope of her recovery, though she 
 miglit live as she was for years to come. 
 
 This seemed as terrible as anything that could have hap- 
 pened to us. Aunt Betsy had been our main stay, being al- 
 ways determined and persevering, never muj»rauring if never 
 hoping much ; and I individually had more faith in her reso- 
 lution than in my grand-father's patience. That she who 
 had been so strong, and apparently in better health than any 
 of us, should have been thus suddenly stricken down, was 
 inexplicable to me, unless I concluded that Providence was 
 in a league with the world to put us down. There was 
 something like despair in my heart, but the old feeling of re- 
 sentment and defiance rose up to neutralize its effects. 
 
 The doctor questioned us rather roughly about our means 
 of obtaining a livelihood, and he regarded me with a glance 
 that was particularly oflensive. My grand-father explained 
 his own partial blindness and helplessness, and the struggle 
 that my aunt and I had to earn sufficient to keep us aliva 
 from day to day. 
 
2Q2r. maboaret;, 0% 
 
 "Then I suppose ^ke'llhavie to go into tlie house ?" said • 
 the doctor. 
 
 " I did not think my poor sister would ever come to that," 
 said my grand-father, clasping his trembling hands together. 
 " Bat God's will be done ! This poor child can neither at- 
 tend to, her^ nor work for her support^; and I, alas ! am inca- 
 pable of doing 3,nything." 
 
 " "Well, I'll report the -case," said the doctor. " I suppose,- 
 the sooner .she's taken away the. better?" 
 
 My grandrfather only bowed his head, and buried his face 
 iaiis hands. I longed to say .something ; liad never felt so 
 strong to do as I did in thiS; our worst extremity : all -my ; 
 past failures seemed as nothing, and I was ^determined to 
 rescue Aunt Betsy from this cold and degrading charity if 
 I could. 
 
 " grand-father !" I said, " do not 'permit this't I will 
 work hard, if you will only help me to keep up th« spirit of 
 independence; if you will only not sink down as you do, 
 lower day .by day, till you make life unendurable' to me! 
 I will work,, if you allow my aunt to remain with us ; if not 
 yo,u paralyse all my effortsi" 
 
 " Don't reproach me, Margaret," said my grand-fatherjiin 
 his meek. way. " I may have committed^ many mistakes in 
 my life, but- I always thought to do for the best. This 
 child," he continued^ turning to, the doctor, " is unaccustom-. . 
 ed. to this kind of trial : you see how willing she is, but she 
 has not the power to do what she would." 
 
 " I think you ought to be thankful to have your aunt well- 
 taken care of, eh ?" said the. doctor, looking at me. 
 
 I turned, away from himj aU the rebellious pride of my 
 heart. flashing inimyeyes. God help me, how I hated the 
 whole world ! how. I loathed myself as the chief cause of all 
 this misery ! how the angeri and contempt of the moment 
 weakened my affection. of my.grand-^father ! 
 
 I could not sympathize with lameness, though' I could 
 readily feel .for suffering. I could have respected my grand- 
 father's piety* more if he had boldly stood up in defence of 
 the righ-ts and . doctrines of Christianity, instead of sitting' 
 meekly down to endure i^ penalties. If I must be ■ made 
 familiar with the hypocrisy, and outrage, and wrong practis- 
 
ed'in the'nam^ of Christ; I must als'd be'perinittei to speaii,' 
 to' rebel against it, or diel I bonsidered it an 'oppression' 
 and a wrong that wej so willing to work and working so' 
 hardly, should not be able to save om-selves from being 
 beholdek to charity ; that the charitjr thus forced upon us 
 should be made las 'degradin'g and "repulsive as possible.' I 
 was in the toils, however ; and I only did what I coiild. I 
 acijuiesced outwardly in the necessity against which toy [ 
 soUl rebelled; and Aunt Betsy was taken to the same work-" 
 house in which Mrs. Graham and her children had been' 
 placed. We had both visited the latter several times, and 
 had been struck by the great change in their manner and 
 appearaacfe. Their hair had been cut close, they were cloth- 
 ed in the work-house livery, and' work-house influences had. 
 chiinged them spiritually still more. Except that ii«y an- ' 
 peared cowed and frightened, there was almost an idiotic 
 apathy about ' them, that contrasted strangely with what 
 th6y had been such a short time befoi'e. They i-eceived our 
 caresses without makin'^ any response ; they saw us come 
 and depart, and preserved the dogged decorum that was en- 
 forced upon them. They wore the badge of the worst de- 
 sciiption of human slavery ; for in the work-houses of Eng- 
 land no man ban bear himself like a man, and no woman 
 struggle for the smallest privilege of her sex, and no child 
 find exercise for the bounding thoughts and teiideir sympa- 
 thies of childhood. 
 
 In proportion as I wrenched myself away from Christiani- 
 ty^ — and I did, altogether^what was there to bind me to it, 
 save the Suffering against which I rebelled ?— I felt i'esolute 
 about standing boldly in my own defence as ian immottal 
 creature ; for'betwixt me and those with whohil came in ' 
 contact, there was something moire than the elay that can' ; 
 so readily be beaten down by clay. My aspirations all 
 tendfed to what was ' great and hobl^ though I had' never 
 been allowed to act greatly or nobly. There was a power ' 
 within me Superior to the outward power ; if I had possessed 
 no hope or confidence in myself, 'there was no restraining ' 
 influence to prevent me laying' down life at once ; and I did '' 
 not fear death, or believe that ''any judgment bejl'oiid'th^ 
 graV^'odi^ afflfcf merashad'dofle 'the jud^ia^&W'ibf iiis 
 
204 mabgaket; or, 
 
 world. I was always within tearing of some spirit-voioe 
 that told me to go onward ; I felt that my rest was not 
 here, — not amid oppression and degradation — even if I 
 might only look on to the retributions of time. 
 
 I resumed my work, with a conviction upon me that 
 Bome new change would wrench me away from it suddenly ; 
 for the wildest hope would not lead me to imagine that I 
 could pay our rent and get life out of it for my grand-father 
 and myself. I colild not keep altogether from Aunt Betsy, 
 though she was not conscious of my presence when I went, 
 and these visits encroached sadly upon my time. During 
 an interval, when my grand-father was too ill to go out, or 
 to leave his heap of straw in Jem's cellar, I one day went to 
 the work-house alone. I found my aunt much as usual; 
 her bodily strength seemed great as ever, and when I bent 
 down to kiss her she struck me. 
 
 " What, you're at it again !" said the nurse, seizing her 
 left arm and shaking her violently. " If I had my way I'd 
 put you in a Mfaight-jacket, you old. vixen ! She'd kill 
 every one of us if she could, the varmin ! and she eats like 
 a horse !" 
 
 " Be gentle with her," I said ; '' pray be gentle." 
 
 " Oh, yes, be gentle indeed^!" said the woman ; " take 
 care of her yourself, and see how you like it. People troub- 
 ling us with their relations, and then grumbling ! it's very 
 nice, that is !" 
 
 Troubling us ! This woman was a section of the great 
 We, the potentiality of earth, whose possibilities may not be 
 interfered with, and whose dictation aspires to absolutism^. 
 I observed this spirit in all the work-house officials ; a sense 
 of being personally put upon by the destitution and afflic- 
 tion plaped under their charge, as if they not only bore the 
 trouhle but the cost, and considered both as thrown away. 
 Could hvimanity be more degraded anywhere, ye whose 
 sympathies wander to far-oflf lands and to another race ? 
 
 As I lingered at my aunt's bedside a man came up, whose 
 dress, perhaps, entitled him to be styled a gentleman. The 
 nurse curtseyed to him as he approached. 
 ," Who's this ?" he said, pointing to me. 
 
 " It's the woman's niece, she's come to see her," answered 
 
PBETODIOB AT HOME. , 205 
 
 tlie nurse meekly. How meek she could be to that mau, 
 who had his own amount of worldly power over her I 
 
 " What do you dress in that flaunting way for ?" he said, 
 rudely seizing the skirt of my dress, and dropping it. " You 
 look as if you could keep your aunt yourself ; and ypu could, 
 I dare say, only you won't. The parish has enough to do 
 amongst you. Do you work at all now, and what do you 
 get a w,eek ? Come, I'm not to be deceived : I'm up to 
 all the dodges." 
 
 I had involuntarily glanced down at the genteel, but now 
 faded dress, which my grand-father had bought for me, and 
 which I had worn at Mrs. Wilton's. How could I sum- 
 marily explain to this man that I had not the power of re- 
 placing this dress by a plainer one ; that I was compelled to 
 wear what I had, or wear nothing? 
 
 How, too, could I, at an instant's notice, quell the insub- 
 ordination that was.in me, and that was so antagonistic to 
 the spirit of this free British soil 2 I spoke what occurred 
 to me at the moment. 
 
 " If by work," I said, " I could have kept my aunt from 
 this place, she would not have been here. If any power is 
 given me in the future, I will take her away from this place, 
 — I am not satisfied with the treatment she receives. I ap- 
 peal to God from it and you !" 
 
 " She's drunk," said the man, turning to the nurse ; 
 "these handsome girls all come to that, the vagabonds ! 
 What did you let her in for ?" 
 
 " Please, sir," said the nurse, humbly, " how could I help 
 it ? She was let in, and we've orders to receive visitors. — 
 I'm sure / don't want the like of her here !" 
 
 " Now go about your business," said the man, turning to 
 me roughly ; " and if you come here again, come in a 
 proper state. I'll look after you sharply, you may depend 
 upon it." 
 
 What had I to appeal to in that place ? I east one 
 agonized look at my aunt, one glance of scorn and defiance 
 at the two persons in whose charge I left her, and walked 
 out. Drunken I was, but not with wine : long months of 
 starvation had taken effect upon me, and the scene I had 
 just escaped from confused me : my head was giddy, and I 
 
20!6''' MARSAKBT-;- or;-' 
 
 staggered as I wdlked on. I had a long way to walfc, too/i, 
 and I was in a crowd, and for a long time 1 did not notice, 
 further than to hurry on as fast as I could, several smatt 
 taps that descended upon my i shoulder, as if from a stick - 
 behindv I thought this might ^ be the result of accident, 
 and crossad the street; but the blows were repeated, and ' 
 then I turned round. I found myself close upon a stout, 
 red-faced, elderly man, who had every appea;rance' of beings- 
 wealthy. He was attired in the finest broadcloth, and there 
 was a fat, self-satisfied, important smile upon his faoe,'that 
 was as impertinent and ofiensivo as anything could well be 
 betwist him and me. He held the identical- sti^ok in ibis 
 hand. 
 
 " If you' are the person who struck me," I said, " I will 
 thank you to keep your distance. You have no^ right' to 
 annoy any' one in the streets." 
 
 I turned and walked on, but he now kept up atfny-side. 
 
 " Come;" he said, " you've a very pretty face, and I think 
 you want a new dress. If you'll go with me, I'll buy you 
 one." 
 
 Tins was the very way to excite in me' a disgust that al-'' 
 most took away the power of speech.' I hurried on in the 
 hope of escaping him, but he kept up with me and an- 
 noyed me further, until I was compelled to turn upon him 
 
 ' If you will not believe that this conduct is offensive to 
 me," I said, " I must claim protection from sOme one. You 
 miserable^ old sinner! cannot you understand that you hav"© 
 no-power over mo 3" 
 
 I quickened my pace, and now he fell behind; but again 
 and' again the "stick desfaended upon my shoulder as before. 
 What more could I do than I had done to save myself in 
 this case ? Near home I got into a denser cro^^d," oc- 
 casioned by some disturbance in the street, and I was cros- 
 sing over to the other side to avoid it, when ray sliajjlders 
 were suddenly seized, and I was fairly wrenched round. 
 
 "Who the h — 11 are you that talk to respectable people 
 in that way ? you infernal tatterdemalion !" 
 
 It was the inflaimed and angry face of the! stout gentle- 
 man' ^ith'-.thB'.'stick that-met' my -now really ffightdned"gaz6; - 
 
PREJUDICE AT HOME. 2CfT 
 
 I had roused his choler; I had spftten; insolently to the great 
 man, and hie_was not used to such liberties. He spoke in a 
 loud, passion-choked voice, and people turned to look at 
 usj He-had his revenge^ and I got home as well as I 
 could. 
 
 It was a sultry, hot day in July, — hot enough,. God" 
 knowsj in the close stT-Set where I lived, and in tho attic, 
 upon whose roof the fervid rays -of the sun were poured 
 down all day long. What; with my exhaustion through 
 want of food and restj'my mental suffering, and' this in- 
 tensa-heat, I.thaught during several minutes that there was 
 nothing for it butto die. Feeling so exhausted as I did^- 
 too much exhausted to return to my work — what was I to 
 do? I was in arrear with^m'y ,rent; I had been threatened 
 with expulsion if I did not 'pay it on a certain day, and I 
 knew that I could not pay. My' grand-father, tooill to leave 
 Jem's cellar, was partly 'kept by him; and with all this 
 help I could not manage to keep myself. 
 
 I sat a long time idling- in the chair, upon which I had 
 first fallen. One advantage of my experience was, that my 
 thorough contempt for the people I encountered served to 
 break down the- ordinary harries between us. I was not to 
 be awed by money or powgr, used only for base purposes; 
 and! I regarded their possessors only as so many brut« 
 beasts. On the othfer hand, I loathed myself for thus lying 
 at the mercy of those I was compelled to scorn. As to 
 God — I did believe there was a God — I could not help it if 
 he^chose to look calmly and indifferently on during these 
 contentions amongst! his creatures. I came 'to the conclu- 
 sion that I might only rely upon such'power and resolution 
 as .were in myself for self-defence. 
 
 And what was the use of that power within myself, 
 which, just served to show me what was right and wrong, and 
 wrench me away from infamy, and hold up the abuses of 
 petty authority to my individual disapprobation ? I did not 
 know ; but I sat with clenched hands and a determined will 
 to do something, when Jem came in. I was, afraid that my 
 grand-father's illness had become more serious. I had seen 
 him in the morning, and had promised to see him again in 
 the course of the day. 
 
208 Margaret; oh, 
 
 " Now, don't you never fret for nothin'," said Jem in 
 answer to my eager inquiry. " That blessed old creeter feels 
 hisself worse, an' he wants to see you ; but he'll be better 
 in no time. I'll tell you what he's done for me — set me 
 straight on the way to heaven, an' I mean to follow where 
 he goes. Lord ? what sinnifies all the good things of this 
 here world when some day or othei*they must come to 
 nothin' !" 
 
 I could not enter into the spirit of Jem's philosophy. I 
 was just considering how I was to procure a little of the 
 chief good of this world — money, without .which . it was 
 pretty clear that my endurance would be tried too far. I 
 could trace all the evil that had befallen me to the want of 
 it. Poverty had not only subjected me to ill usage and im- 
 position, but also to distrust. As the chandler's wife had 
 said, " my looks were against me." My shabby gentility, 
 even what small portion of beauty I possessed, only served 
 to surround me with suspicion. The law of England re- 
 quires that poverty be made as unsightly as possible — wit- 
 ness the effects of work-house treatment,^— and the poverty 
 that has not yet come to this can only be supposed to be on 
 the way to it. The world was evidently disposed to believe 
 that I was thriving on a life of infamy. 
 
 Poor Jem, the only human being who would give me 
 credit for anything better, was being put upon by our 
 necessities. Even if my grand-father had been well, enough 
 to be removed, I could not have thought of bringing him to 
 the home from which I myself expected to be thrust forth. 
 What was to become of me in that event I did not know ; 
 I was determined not to be "driven into the work-bouse ': all 
 the rest was chaos to me. I rose up to accompany Jem, 
 and we walked out together. 
 
FBBJUDICI! AT BOMB. 209 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 As Jem and I passed along, lie pointed out to me two well- 
 dressed people, a man and a woman, both of whom he said 
 obtained a good living by singing at night in the streets. — 
 People will pay for a momentary gratification of the kind 
 if they haippen to be in humor with themselves, and at 
 night the pleasure-going people, who are the most liberal, 
 are chiefly abroad.- I don't know what made this account 
 dwell in my mind at the moment ; I had no thought of do- 
 ing likewise then : perhaps it struck me that this form of 
 pauperism was more attractive than the other. 
 
 I found my grand-father very weak; he seemed to be 
 sinking gradually. Jem had managed to prop him up by 
 placing a saekful of shavings behind, and when I had seated 
 myself at his side on a low stool the faithful fellow went 
 out, saying he should be back in no time. 
 
 My grand-father took one of my hands and held it between 
 his own caressingly. 
 
 " My poor child," he said, " I did not think to bring you 
 to this when, nearly two years ago, I came here in the hope 
 that we might be able to live by our industry. It has 
 pleased God that two of us should be stricken, and you are left 
 to struggle alone. In this extremity I can only advise, I will 
 not pretend to dictate to you. I have no fear that you will 
 stoop to anything that is dishonorable ; it is dreadful enough 
 to contemplate for you a long life of toil and privation like 
 this. I may not be allowed to remain much longer on the 
 earth, Margaret, and then you will te still more desolate ; 
 then, too, you will have to be your own advisor, and you 
 are young to be so left. I have tried to bring you up in 
 9* 
 
210 ' MiH&ARET;' OE, 
 
 the fear of the Lord, but I, will place no further restriction 
 upon you. You know the reason why I have kept you out 
 of the reach of Uncle Stephen ; I account the death of the 
 body light in comparison with the death of the soul. Con- 
 sidering how I am leaving you, however, I can but leave 
 you free to act as you think best, or as you may be com- 
 pelled to act. Uncle Stephen would not allow you to want 
 bodily, perhaps — I may say, I feel sure he would respect 
 my last wish that he should not interfere with your spiritual 
 welfare, I however dread!th'e influence of such a man over 
 an impulsive creature like yourself, as much as I ever dread- 
 ed it. ■ In him you have already found more truly Christian 
 pratetice than you' found in many professing to be the fol- 
 lowers of Christ. I have not been blind to this fact, Margar 
 ret,: all these months, and it has pained me to the sonL 
 Now, I do not say to you, continue to keep away from Un- 
 cle 'Stephen ; I cannot do that now : butwhile you honor 
 him for ' the help that he will readily afford you, shun his 
 dangbrbus sophisms, for there is spiritual death in them. If 
 this must needs be, Margaret, it had best be' done at once : 
 not for my sake but yours, for it is little more I may re- 
 quire upon earth," and I do not personally shrink from a 
 pauper coffin and grave — poor Betsy will have no better-'^ 
 though- for your sake I wish it had been otherwise." 
 
 This 'Speech was painful to me for many reasons. I was 
 already sufficiently alienated from Christianity without the" 
 intervention of Uncle Stephen. I could ' not afflict my 
 grand-father by telling him this truth ; I could' not reassure 
 him' by any evidence that I remained firm in my first faith. 
 My pride revolted at the thought of throwing myself upon 
 Uncle Stephen in this abject penury; and as a last resource, 
 after not treating hina well by disappearing ' so suddenly, 
 and hiding from him so pertinaciously. I could not bear to 
 contemplate' my grand-father's death ; I clung to the hope 
 of his recovery. There was no part of his speech to which 
 I could' give a satisfactory reply, so I answered evasively. 
 Without intending to make a merit of shunning Uncle 
 Stephen, I prayed' to be allowed to struggle on a little while 
 without his help. As I spoke hopefully of continuing - my '■ 
 own efiforts,>my grand-father gaoed wistfully «pon me. ' 
 
PBEJUDICK AT HOME. 211 ■ 
 
 " There' is one thing tobe seriously considered," hesaid: 
 " -whether it is moi'e degrading to enter a worlc-house, and 
 so be indebted to public charity, or to allow one's-self to be 
 a burden >upon a poor fellow like this Jem. You cannot, 
 my child, maintain us both by your labor ; you must not 
 be left alone 'in the world. I wish you to consent to my re- 
 moval at once from this place." 
 
 I knew that it was madness to think of hira remaining where 
 he was, lying upon straw that'scarcely protected 'him from 
 the earthen floor, that seemed always damp;, half suflbcated 
 by ■ the close, impure atmosphere; and almost all along 
 without attendance; as well as medicine or proper food. If 
 I would much rather have seen him dead than the inmate 
 of a work-house, I had no thought of allowing him to linger 
 on in this state until more than a parish coffin would not be ' 
 needed. The very desperation of my thoughts had struck 
 out an idea, and I resolved to make' one more trial' before I 
 gave up. 
 
 " Give me this one day, gratid-father," I said ; " I fancy 
 that fortune is about to turn in our favor: If I am disap- 
 pointed, I will not seek to detain you here longer than to- 
 morrow." 
 
 My grand-father fell' back exhausted •with the! effort he 
 had made ; he murmured a few Words expressive of his ac- 
 quiescence in what I thought best. I had never before had 
 so much responsibility upon me ; there was no one to con- 
 trol me in any way, and I launched out in a manner that' ' 
 neither Aunt Betsy nor my grand-father would have ventur- 
 ed to dd. When Jem came in I sent him to fetch' the wo- 
 man whom I had seen in his cellar some months before, and 
 who had lately been kind in occasionally waiting upon my 
 grand-father. She had washed for him, refusing any fur- 
 ther remuneration than an occasional 'pound of soap; and 
 no one that ' has not been reduced to' the same straits, can 
 imagine the relief that this assistance afforded me at a time 
 when everything fell upon myself. Upon this occasion, I 
 gave her nearly allthe money I had', to purchase some sago ' 
 and wine for my grand-father. I was convinced that his 
 chief ailment' was starvation ; and I did not see the use of 
 hoarding the trifling sum thai my ordinary labor would not^ 
 
212 Margaret; ob, 
 
 allow me to increase. These petty cares, the sordid prodnce 
 of days for whose return I felt no thankfulness, inspired me 
 with an impatient disdain. 
 
 I left the woman with my grand-father. I could make 
 no bargg,in with her for any further attendance than what 
 her own natural kindliness of heart prompted her to give. 
 I could not promise that I would pay for her time and la- 
 bor ; yet wh'en I thanked her with a full heart, and she told 
 me not to bother myself, I felt more confidence in her than 
 I could have felt in any mere hireling. 
 
 It was still broad day-light when I went back to my room. 
 The house in which I lived was tenanted by people who. 
 seemed to be honest, and who worked hardly enough, but, 
 like many hard-working people in England, they were im- 
 provident. The men were generally drunk from Satur- 
 day until Tuesday or Wednesday ; yet they could in the short 
 time left earn enough for dissipation, if nothing for comfort. 
 The man who earned most in this house was an ivory-turner 
 and carver ; he was very clever in his way, but his family 
 was in a more forlorn condition than any other in the place, 
 because he was seldom sober. Then the locality was curs- 
 ed with all the horrible consequences of drunkenness; — 
 quarrelling, foul .language, fighting, — miserable wives with 
 their eyes blackened, — more miserable children, dragged up 
 in any fashion that chanced, running about wild, always 
 ragged and dirty, and half-starved, sometimes crouching in 
 corners in terror, and sometimes running out in the middle 
 of the night screaming murder. No man who brings him- 
 self to the work-house by this reckless course of improvi- 
 dence has a right to better treatment than he receives ; and, 
 doubtless, a large proportion of the pauper slaves of Eng- 
 land is supplied by like means. 
 
 A portion of my work was lying upon a chair, and I tossed 
 it away impatiently. I had not returned to set down to 
 that. I had tasted no food since the morning ; and the 
 woman who lived in the next room came in to tell me that 
 her kettle was boiling, if I wanted to make tea. I accept- 
 ed her offer ; and I must say for the very poor, amongst 
 whom I lived so long, that such little acts of kindness, ap- 
 parently trifling, but very serviceable, are not unfrequent 
 
PREJUDICE AT HOME. 213 
 
 amongst them. I swallowed a cup of tea, without milk or 
 sugar, and ate some dry bread ; and then I sat down to 
 wait for the night and darkness. 
 
 I needed both for the woi-k I intended to do. The great 
 scheme upon which I had been hrooding half the day, and 
 ■which I trusted to save me from something worse, was to 
 sing in the streets, as Jem had informed me others did with 
 advantage. I did not allow myself to shrink from this task, 
 distasteful and terrible as it was to me. My horror of the 
 work-house oflBcials was something still worse ; if I could 
 have forgotten them for a moment, my courage would have 
 oozed away. I called to ray aid the contempt with which 
 human beings had inspired me. What did their thoughts 
 matter to me ? As to the exhibition I was about to make 
 of myself, — none knew me ; none would remember me after 
 passing out of my sight. There was, fortunately, no moon ; 
 and at about ten o'clock I walked out of the house, I had 
 muflBed myself up as well as I could, and I bent my steps 
 towards a quiet quarter, not far off, in which were several 
 genteel streets and squares. I persuaded myself that it 
 would be best to begin in an empty street, if I could find 
 one, and sing on until some one came, by which time I 
 might becojie more used to it. I could sing with some 
 taste and skill, for my grand-father and Uncle Stephen had 
 been excellent singers in their day, and both had taken 
 great pains with me. I at length found a secluded street, 
 made a desperate plunge into the middle of it, and com- 
 menced. 
 
 I had been singing some time when I heard a door open. 
 Some one called, — " Here !" I went forward, and a footman 
 placed sixpence in my hand. This good fortune took my 
 voice away for several minutes ; I had what poor little 
 James called a " choking in his throat ;" but I made another 
 desperate effort, commenced again. 
 
 Presently I heard footsteps approaching ; nearer and 
 nearer they came, and then stopped ; and I sang on. I 
 lifted my eyes, and saw that two gentlemen were standing 
 very near me ; then I began to falter again, and was about 
 to stop, when one of the two spectators came forward and 
 ceized my hand. 
 
'214 MiR&iRET ; OR, 
 
 " Margaret !". he exclaimed, "why, thisfr,is r worse .than 
 , singing the songs of Israel in a strange land ! Come- with 
 me." 
 
 It was Uncle Stephen, and he spoke with the old tone of 
 : authority. He placed my arm in i his, still grasping my 
 hand, and turned to his companipn. 
 
 "You. go home, George, and tell your mother I have 
 found 'th©m," he said ; and Geojrge disappeared. " Is this 
 the best thing you can find to do in a Christian land 2" oon- 
 i.tinued Uncle Stephen. » 
 
 " The very best," I said, " as you, will acknowledge when 
 you hear all. O Uncle Stephen! we have suffered since 
 you saw. us last !" 
 
 "But Thomas Marples to permit this ! Is he dead,.*! 
 - has trouble driven him out: of his wits ?" 
 
 I explained] that this was my first atteinpt of the kind; 
 
 that my, grandrfather knew nothing of my intention ; andi I 
 
 begged that all knowledge of it might be ikept frbm him. 
 
 We were walking slowly down the street, when Uncle -Ste- 
 
 ,-phen; stopped. 
 
 " You must show me where you live," he said. "Are we 
 .■ going the right way ?" i- 
 
 We were not, and we turned back. I told him he would 
 
 be still more shocked when, he saw the place in which my 
 
 .igrand-father,was lying ; too ill, I feared, to be removed. : I 
 
 ,, gave him a' brief account of our troubles, i and Aunt Betsy's 
 
 affliction. 
 
 "-Betsy Marples in a work-house !" he exclaimed. " She 
 who was always I so energetic, so resolute to struggle for in- 
 
 . I dependence ! : Damn the ! the devil !" 
 
 I had never heard Uncle Stephen swear before; I was 
 Sony to see him so moved. 
 
 " I am almost grieved that we have met," I said ; " it is 
 too bad that we should bring further trouble upon you." 
 
 " Hold your tongue, Margaret ; you know nothing about 
 it," he replied. "There wasn't one amongst you fitter to 
 enter this inhospitable wilderness of London than a child ! 
 1 Fop the future. I shall expect you to obey me." 
 
 . I thought it necessary to announce him to my grand- 
 father, who was too weak to endure any sudden ^emotion 
 
PREJUDICE AT. H<JME. iZlS 
 
 the.tjijejiefora agreed to wait outside when we arrived at Jem's 
 cellar. I found the latter standing over the <ire, istirring 
 some s^ge he was boiling. He said my graod-fatber .was 
 much bet|terj,and had had a lojjg sleep. 
 
 "I do feel stronger, Margaret," said rny grand-lather, who 
 was now awake. Of course he did! He hadsipply been 
 .starved, ,a,nd nourishing food was the remedy for his dr^- 
 plaint. 1 told him, as gently , as I copld, of my .meeting 
 -with Uncle ■ Stephen. • For a moment he seemed greatly 
 jnfWed; then he requested,- Jem to raise. him pp. 
 
 " You have brought him with you,, I suppose 3" he said, 
 ."rT,ell him to come .to. me." 
 
 I fetched Upcle Stephen in. Teajs .rushed to my eyes as I 
 .witnessed the meeting, of these two, who, had been, friends 
 from boyhood, and thrp.ugh the course of, a long life.— 
 ; Grasping, eaich other's, hiands in.silence, both looked eagerly 
 into the ffice of t^c other. Uncle, Stephen at length shook 
 ^liisfhead. 
 
 " A pretty dance you have led me this year and. a half I" 
 ;he said. " George a,nd I have been looking for yon all over 
 London. I even advertised you, as I, might have done any 
 other missing articles. I projnised, in the usual .style, that 
 if you would communicate with me all the. past should be 
 .iorgotten and forgiven, .and th;at Ij would never interfere with 
 your plans. Did that never meet your eye 1" 
 
 " Ye:s;".^aid my grand-;father ; 'fl saw the advertisement 
 .tv?ice. Mr. Ohaiindy," he continued, turning to me, "|)oint- 
 ed it out to me. What could I do, .Stephen? If we had 
 -been prqsperous, you would have heard from us, as I told 
 you ; as it was, I knew we could only bring trouble upon 
 you, perhaps more upon ourselves." 
 
 " O Thomas, Thomas, you might have trusted me !" 
 
 " I hope to be able to do that now," said my grand-father. 
 " You see this child has no .friend left beside yourself. — 
 As for me, I am nearly blind, Stephen, and I ought to hope 
 that I ishafll not trouble any one ;loiig." 
 
 " You've had your own way long enough," said Uncle 
 Stephen ; "now I've got you fast,^ and I shall have no mercy 
 npon you. I sh^ll expect you to ' leave this place in tl\e 
 ;50o,rning,.'v?Jie[tfe?r;you are weHienpugh ,toj^axe,it.or,jipt, — 
 
216 MAKGAKET ; OE, 
 
 Tbe longer you stop here, the worse you will be. Where is 
 that fellow gone to ?" 
 
 He looked round for Jem, who, with his usual delicacy of 
 feeling, had gone out. I opened the cellar door and saw 
 him leaning against a lamp-post, and beckoned him in. " 
 
 " Jem has been about the best friend we ever had," said 
 my grand-father, turning towards him. " I don't know 
 what we ehould hare done without him." 
 
 " He's a fine fellow !" said Uncle Stephen. "I saw that 
 at first. So you don't preach one thing and practice ano- 
 ther, eh ? Shake hands 1" 
 
 Poor Jem seemed to put out his hard, dirty hand, with 
 some diffidence, but Uncle, Stephen shook it warmly. 
 
 " "We shall be capital friends by and bye," he said. " Now 
 I must give you. some instructions. I want to remove this 
 old gentleinan to-morrow ; in the meantime, he must have 
 some nourishment. What have yoti got to give him ?" 
 
 Jem said he had some sago and wine, which seemed to 
 have done him good. 
 
 " r don't know that he could have anything better," said 
 Uncle Stephen. " And so you are his nurse V 
 
 " Me an' Sally takes it turn an' turn about," said Jem. 
 
 •'And who is Sally?" 
 
 " A neighbor of mine, as '11 do a'most anything for any- 
 body," said Jem. 
 
 " You've got into capital company, Thomas," said Uncle 
 StepKen. " Well, I must see Sally to-morrow, and you too. 
 Now, Thomas, I shall take Margaret home with me to-night, 
 and remember that you are to come to her. If you don't 
 by Jove, you shan't see her again f 
 
 My grand-father smiled. 
 
 " I have nothing to say against your arrangement, Ste- 
 phen," he said. " I don't know how to thank you for tak- 
 ;ing such a heavy load of trouble off my mind. God bless 
 
 " And God bless you, Thomas ! I believe in God as 
 much as you do, though Betsy always would say I didn't. 
 Now keep yourself quiet till morning, you've talked enough. 
 Margaret, bid yoiir grand-father good night." 
 
 I approached -aiid' kissed him,' and received bis btessing, 
 
PREJUDICE AT HOME. 21*7 
 
 and I shook hands with Jem. Uncle Stephen drew iiim in- 
 to a corner, and spoke with him for a minute, and then we 
 two walked out. We walked to some distance in silence : 
 and then Uncle Stephen called a coach, giving an address 
 to a street in Camden Town. 
 
 We drov« on for sometime in silence ; at length Uncle 
 Stephen spoke : — 
 
 " I'm taking you to my sister's house, Margaret," he said. 
 " In her young days she knew your grand-father and Aunt 
 Betsy well : she ought to be glad to see you. My nephew, 
 GeoTge, is of the right sort; thoiigh, confound him ! I can 
 make nothing of him. You must feel quite at home, re- 
 member." 
 
 I muTmured out something. I did not feel quite sure of 
 a welcome from these relatives of Uncle Stephen, who were, 
 I understood, partly, if not altogether, dependent upon him- 
 self. He was not rich, besides; he had lavished nearly ail 
 he possessed upon them years ago, and it was natural to sup- 
 pose that they would regard with jealousy such claimants 
 upon his bounty as we were. I was furtlier troubled about 
 my dress, remembering that first impressions go a long way. 
 I had that night attired myself in the most dilapidated gar- 
 ments I possessed, and none of them were by this time in a 
 very flourishing condition. I anticipated something disa- 
 greeable ; but at the same time I felt that this new state 
 was not to last long. It was only a step forward in the 
 weary march that was to lead me — to what ? The coach 
 stopped. I saw an open door, at which stood a gentleman- 
 ly young man, with a lighted candle in his hand. He led 
 the way into a nicely-furnished front parlor, and then Un- 
 cle Stephen introduced me to his nephew, and George Eat- 
 cliffe held out his hand very cordially. 
 
 " I am happy to see you. Miss Marples," he said. " I am 
 sure I may well say so, in consideration of the state Uncle 
 Stephen has been in about you; but I can truly say so oh 
 my own account. I hope you found the dear old verger and 
 Aunt Betsy all right, uncle ?" 
 
 Uncle Stephen shook his head. " Where is your moth- 
 er ?" he asked. ' 
 
218 MAReARET; OR, 
 
 "•Sb'e complained of bestlaolie when I got hoftre, sn«{ 
 went to bed. You see, uncle, we didn't exactly know " 
 
 " iPshaw r' said Uncle Stephen, interrupting him ; " ring 
 the bell and tell Jane to bring some supper." 
 
 Uncle Stephen took off my bonnet ^nd shawl. I wished 
 to retain the latier'io hide my ragged dress, but he would 
 not let me. Jane, the single servant of the small establish- 
 ment, who was very smartly dressed, eyed me cuTioiasly "as 
 she brought in- and a frawged the supper -tray. Uncle Ste- 
 phen addressed me in French, and alluded gaily to ol«t 
 times. He reminded me how rigorous he had always beea 
 about keeping me at ray lessons. 
 
 "I always had the fature in my mind," he said ; " I wish- 
 ed to make yoH perfect in as much as I was able to teach. 
 ISow see the result ; you speak French beiter than George 
 here, who has been to a public school and a miversky. As 
 a musician, I should not be ashamed to exhibit ypa any^ 
 where. As to general knowledge, Heaven defend us fronj 
 all that is contained in that Kttie head I" 
 
 " I owe you a great deal in this respect. Uncle Stephen," 
 I said ; " and yet these attainments seem to be of little use 
 to me in the world. Do you really think I shall ever be 
 able to make a living out of them I" 
 
 " Why, if you dwindle down irrto an old raard, we may 
 set you up in a school as a last resource," said Uncle Ste- 
 phen, " As to drudging in the ordinary governess line — 
 that sublime idea belongs wholly to yotir grand-father. I 
 never eHtertained it, nor do I now ; nor the other plan eith- 
 er. Just yet. Take a glass of wine now, and go to bed, for 
 it's nearly one o'clock." 
 
 Uncle Stephen went out for a moment, and I heard hini 
 whispering with Jane in the passage. In the absence of th^ 
 Hiistress of the house there might be some difficulty about 
 accommodating me. George seemfed uneasy : out of his 
 imcle's presence he was, either purposely or helplessly, re- 
 served. I sat upon thorns till Uncle Stephen came in the 
 room again. 
 
 Presently he entered. " Jane will show you to your room," 
 he said. "Now good-night, and mind you sleep soundly. 
 To-morrow we will see about a thorough reformation." 
 
PREJUDICE AT HOME. 219 
 
 , . He kissed m«, and George shook hands with, me, and I 
 followed. Jane to a bpck sleeping-room on the first floor. — 
 She was very civil, and showed me a btll that I could ring 
 if I wanted anything. I found a night-dress on the pillow, 
 and the hed looked luxurious enough to invite one less 
 weary than myself to sleep. I could not sleep, however; 
 I was already impatient with this new state of dependence, 
 aiM what Uncle Stephen had said roused my anxiety as well 
 as curiosity. It was not his intention to make a governess 
 of me, and never had been ; — what,, then, did he intend me 
 to be oT to do?. It was useless speculating on this' subject. 
 I only felt that Uncle Stephen had ill studied my character 
 if he entertained any idea of condemning me to a life of 
 dependence arid idlfeness. The destitution from which I was 
 just rescued had been accompanied by, a wild sense of free- 
 dom from control that had an especial charm for me. I, 
 who bad all my life been so completely under the strict gov- 
 ernment of others, had a passion, if not talent, for govern- 
 i-pg my, own affairs, which gained upon me after that brief 
 trial of the sweets of liberty, under circumstances otherwise 
 disootiraging enough. The only one thought that gave me 
 real satisfaction was the belief that my grand-father would 
 now recover speedily. All the events of the last two years 
 Game back to me that night, from my first meeting with my 
 father, whom I detested, to mj last parting from little 
 James Graham, whom I loved so much. I wished for ma- 
 ny changes of circumstance, but this that had happened 
 was not one of them ; I was still left powerless' as ever in 
 myself Late in the morning I fell into a heavy sleep, from 
 which I was awakened by the servant, who came with her 
 mistress's compliments to inform me that breakfast was 
 ready. I was annoyed at having overslept myself, and hur- 
 ried to go down, though I would have given a great deal 
 to have been a hundred miles away. My dress altogether 
 was in a terrible condition when examined by broad day- 
 light ; and I was angry with myself for having accompani- 
 ed Uncle Stephen so readily, when I might have i eraained a 
 night longer in my own lodging. Regret was, however, 
 availless'.; I' was compelled to go through with what lay be- 
 fore me. I descended to the passage, and was ushered by 
 
220 MARGARET; OE, 
 
 Jane into the back-parlor. Mrs; RatcHffe was seated alone 
 at the breakfast-table, and she rose at my entrance and ex- 
 tended me three fingers, which, when I touched them, 
 seemed as cold and unpliable as might have been the 
 three prongs of a fork. She looked younger than her 
 brother, and might have been fifty-three or four ; rather 
 slightly made, fair in complexion, and with evidences of 
 having been pretty. She was quite what is called lady-like 
 in her manners ; but that does not mean h-aving the man- 
 ners of a gentle-woman. It was the very excess of her po- 
 liteness that gave me. to understand how much of an in- 
 truder I really was. I inquired after the gentlemen, and 
 asked if they had gone out. 
 
 " Oh, you are laboring under a mistake, I see," said Mrs. 
 Ratcliffe. " They did not sleep here last night. My house 
 being so small, and only having one servant, I could not do 
 with them at . all. They sleep at my son's chambers in 
 Gray's Inn, and sometimes take their meals there. What 
 they are about this morning I can't imagine ; however, my 
 brother left word he should be here to dinner."- 
 
 This disconcerted me very much, for the prospect of pas- 
 sing several dreary hours in the society of this very frigid 
 lady would have been intolerable enough if I had not been 
 so encompassed by perplexities and anxieties. I had, my- 
 self, managed badly, and Uncle Stephen had done no better, 
 though he meant well ; and the very best-intentioned men 
 are the most liable to commit blunders in apparently small, 
 but really important, matters. In his determination to take 
 care of me. Uncle Stephen had overlooked or disregarded 
 the commotion my sudden ^ appearance would occasion in 
 the orderly household of his sister, from her manner al- 
 together, and from what she said, I could only understand 
 that she was very much surprised to find me there, and that 
 she was in a state of some anxiety respecting what was to be 
 done with me. 
 
 " It distresses me to put you out of the way as I must be 
 doing," I said. " I expected to have seen Uncle Stephen 
 this morning." 
 
 " Dear me ! do you call him Uncle Stephen ? It seems 
 
PBEJtTDICE AT HOME. 221 
 
 very odd to me, you know, as there is not the slightest re- 
 lationship." 
 
 Here was another repeller. My face flushed, and I said, 
 " Having been taught to address him by that title from my 
 infancy, I scarcely knew how to name him in any other 
 way." 
 
 " My brother has always been very eccentric, I know," 
 said the lady. " In fact, it would have been a great advan- 
 tage to him if he had married early in life ; he has many 
 extravagant notions that a wife might have corrected." 
 
 This speech, delivered in quite a cordially-confidential 
 tone, was followed up by a string of apologies for the ap- 
 parent rudeness of leaving me alone. 
 
 "The fact is," she said, "I have for several years past 
 been in the habit of visiting every morning an old friend of 
 mine who is bed-ridden ; and if I missed once she would 
 think directly that something dreadful had happened. I 
 am really so sorry, but I hope you will excuse me." 
 
 I begged she would not mention it. 
 
 " If you want anything," she continued, "you have only 
 to ask Jane ; and I shall be back in an hour or two." 
 
 I was left alone in the very snug parlor ; and I might 
 have been placed there for the purpose of learning the real 
 unimportance of externals in the matter of human happi- 
 ness. I had been much happier in Jem's cellar. 'There was 
 a book-case and a piano in the room ; but I did not turn to 
 either. I sat lost in thought, or paced moodily about for 
 several hours, during which Mrs. Eatoliffe did not return. — 
 At length a loud knock came to the street door, and to my 
 great joy Uncle Stephen entered. 
 
 " Now, how do you get on ?" he said, holding out his 
 hand, briskly ; " all right, eh ! Where's my sister ?" 
 
 I told him she had gone out. 
 
 " Gone out !" he said, with a slight frown. " Oh, well, 
 never mindj I only told her to be sure and be at home at 
 dinner-time ; and we dine here at four o'clock. Now, have 
 you had any lunch ?" 
 
 I said I did not want any. 
 
 " Oh, stuff and nonsense 1' he said, ringing the bell vio- 
 
222 MAKaAKEi; ob 
 
 leEitljTi " Jane," lie called out, " why don't you bring somo 
 lunch up ? Come, make haste I'm in a hurry." 
 
 I assured him that I could not eat anything ; but he 
 made m.e take a glass of wine and a biscuit. 
 
 "Kow," he said, "put your bonnet and shawl on. directly, 
 and come with me. I've got a coach waiting at the door, 
 and as we go! along I'll give you all the inforraation." 
 
 I obeyed him, very gladly, and iu a few minutes we drove 
 off. 
 
 " I've given the, driver the address of your lodgings, which, 
 r obtained from Jem," he said, wheii we were seated. " You 
 must pay .the,_rent, and bring all your things away. George 
 and I took your grand-father to a nice airy lodging in Isling- 
 ton this morning, and we left Jem to attend him. He'll be 
 quite strong in a week, and then we shall get on famously. 
 As to you, you must at present remain with my sister." 
 
 "Uncle Stephen," I said, "I feel grateful for your kind- 
 ness, especially to my grand-father, but I cannot consent to 
 become such a burden to you or your sister. I wish to do 
 something to maintain myself. I have hitherto failed, 
 chiefly through being unable to obtain a character. If' 
 either you or Mrs. Ratclifife gave me one, I should, I dare 
 say, do very well," 
 
 " I told yoalast night, said Uncle Stephen, " that I had 
 no intention to hire you out. My views are at present al- 
 together different, and I will explain them shortly. As to 
 being a burden upon me, you know very well, or ought to do, 
 that you will be nothing of the kind; nor can you very 
 wellbe a burden upon my sister, seeing that she is quite 
 dependent upon myself. I have some claim upon your 
 obedience, Maj-garet, and I shall claim it." 
 
 One of the great facts of life is, that every individual's 
 personal, experience brings out latent truths, that can only 
 be thoroughly understood or dealt with by himself. I had 
 found this out before now, and it was the basis of my strug- 
 gle for som.e independence of action. I could not complain 
 of Mrs. Ratohffe's conduct to her brother, or say, what I 
 knew to be true, that my presence in the house was a great 
 nuisance to her, and that she regarded his interference in 
 our behalf as a personal injury, I, who could scarcely be 
 
phejodiok at homb. 223 
 
 said to belong to anybody, dreaded above all things becom- 
 jHg a burden to any. I eoald not help thinking tkat Uncle 
 Stepben''s eeoenti-ieity was leading himself wrong. 
 
 " I know," I said, " that you have always been lavishly 
 generous, — always forgetting yourself in others. I learned 
 that long ago. All that I have learned since teaches me 
 that I oUght to have some relianee upon myself. I do not 
 pretend to be wiser than you are, Unele Stephen ; but, cir- 
 eumstaneed as I am, it seenas clear to me that I ought to 
 be placed in some way of earning my own living. " I have 
 been a burden upon others too long already; and the very 
 few who care for me may not remain with me always. Don't 
 you see " 
 
 '' Oh yes, I see," said Uncle Stephen, interrupting . me ; ' 
 ■"I see that you are going to kill as ail outi-ight 1 Now, 
 you very wise little person, since you will make an old wo- 
 man of 3'ourself before your time, let us talk reasonably to- 
 gether. You like to be independent ; that is your great,^— 
 what do you call it ? — -forte. I want to make you indepen- 
 dent. You would rather patronise others than be patro- 
 nised. Well, you shall patronise my sister : .will that do? 
 I am quite serious, Margaret; I hope to place you in a 
 position that will enable you to do' this ; I expect to see you 
 rise in the world, and drag us — her, at least — along with 
 you. This is an old-cherished plan of mine, and I think you 
 are in duty bound not to thwart it." 
 
 " You ar-e mocking me. Uncle Stephen," I said. I eould 
 make nothing of his words. 
 
 " Bless my life ?" said Uncle Stephen, " am I not old 
 enough to know that getting through the world is ho joke ? 
 I tell you I know what I'm about, and you must trust to me. 
 There's only one thing I stipulate for ; — you mustn't allow 
 George to fall in love with you." 
 
 " Uncle Stephen !" 
 
 "Don't mistake my meaning; if he was good enough 
 for you in all respects, I should wink at your running off 
 together to-morrow morning ; but he isn't, and I have other 
 views for you. Now, you see, here we are ; so make haste 
 and collect your things. Take this purse and pay what you 
 owe, and get some one to help you." 
 
224 MAROAEBT J OB, 
 
 I ran hastily into tlie house, paid my rent the first thing, 
 and then went up to my I'oom. Here I changed my dress, 
 and easily bestoWed in one box all that belonged to me. 
 Indeed, we had been compelled to dispose of so much, even 
 to the boxes, that only one dilapidated trunk remained, and 
 this I gave to the woman who lived in the room next mine, 
 and who helped to carry my box to the coach. When I 
 was again seated, Uncle Stephen took out his watch. 
 
 " I've ordered the driver to gp on to Islington," he said ; 
 " we've plenty of time to see your grand-father and get 
 homo to dinner." 
 
 I considered this very kind and thoughtful and I said so. 
 
 " Oh ! you think I can do right sometimes, eh, Miss Mar- 
 garet ?" said Uncle Stephen, laughing. 
 
 A very short drive brought us to the pleasant cottage- 
 house, with a small garden before it, in which my grand- 
 father now dwelt. We found him reclined upon a sofa in 
 the parlor, and Jem with him. And what an odd-looking 
 Jem he had become 1 Uncle Stephen had clothed him from 
 head to foot ; not with new clothes, but good ones that fit- 
 ted him. At present he looked, awkward and confused, but 
 very happy. 
 
 We passed half-an-hour with my grand-father, who al- 
 ready seemed much better, conversing chiefly about Aunt 
 Betsy. 
 
 " I shall see her to-day," said Uncle Stephen ; " and for 
 the present I shall pay a weekly sum to ensure her proper 
 attendance. Who knows ? she may recover." 
 
 " And in the meantime what a burden we all are upon 
 you, Stephen!" said. my grand-father,, 
 
 " Nay, if you begin that subject I'm off," said Uncle Ste- 
 phen, rising. " Margaret here has been harping upon it till 
 I'm tired. Oh, Thomas, Thomas ! thou man of little faith ! 
 do not wrong our old friendship by talking and thinking in 
 this way 1" 
 
 There was scarcely any resisting the heartiness of Uncle 
 Stephen. As for me, I was young and romantic, and what 
 he had said to me filled my mind with many vain dreams. 
 He might know more about me than I knew about myself ; 
 perhaps my father's heart had been touched, and he had 
 
PREJUDICE AT HOME 225 
 
 Been that it was, at least, his duty to help me on in the 
 world ; perhaps he meant to adopt me (I knew that he waa 
 unmarried when I saw him last) ; perhaps he was dead, and 
 had bequeathed me the means of independence. I had 
 something to learn from Uncle Stephen, and I could not 
 separate what he had said from this haunting idea of Colonel 
 Leigh. 
 
 And though I really did not wish to see this relenting spirit 
 in the latter — though I would much rather have risen up 
 myself and kept aloof from him and his, circumstances 
 made me contemplate, with satisfaction, such a second-best 
 sort of destiny as the above possibilities promised. There 
 was so much that I wanted to gain and to do — and at once ! 
 Relief, in the first place, from this heavy sense of obligation 
 to Uncle Stephen. Then the pleasure of myself providing 
 for my grand-father and Aunt Betsy, and of prosecuting the 
 search after dear little James Graham ; and tending his sis- 
 ters ; and striving for the reformation of Susan. AH this I 
 wished to do, and what I considered a glimpse of the power 
 to do it broke down all my patience. O money, money ! did 
 ever any one need money as I did ? 
 
 The dinner that day was very dreary to me, with all my 
 thoughts thus occupied, and my spirit on the alert after the 
 unattainable. George came in just as it was served up. 
 He appeared to be about twenty-eight years of age, and had 
 good, but rather heavy features, and was inclined to be stout. 
 It struck me that he was very listless in manner, and sloven- 
 ly in dress, for a young man ; and he did not appear to be 
 addicted to study or dissipation, either of which pursuits 
 might have accounted for his appearance. I had been in- 
 clined to dislike him, but I changed my opinion before din- 
 ner was over. Uncle Stephen seemed quite at home, and 
 Mrs. Eatcliflfe was frigid and polite as ever. 
 
 " Sit here, Margaret," said Uncle Stephen ; " you shall 
 have George for your vis-a-vis. He's a sad, dull, ungallant 
 fellow, but you must excuse him. You know you're a sort 
 of cousins, though you meet uow as strangers to one an- 
 
 " What nonsense you will talk , Stephen !" said Mrs. Eat- 
 cliffe, glancing at Jane, who was in attendance. 
 
 10 
 
223 MARG-AKBT ; OB, 
 
 ' " Not such nonsense as you suppose," said Uncle Stephen. 
 " I should have beea Margaret's uncle in reality, if, years 
 ago, Betsy Marples had not refused me for a husband." 
 
 " How you talk, Stephen !" continued Mrs. EatoliflFe, evi- 
 dently annoyed. 
 
 " It's quite true," said Uncle Stephen ; " she refused me 
 twice." 
 
 " Do tell us all about it, uncle," said George ; his face 
 quite brightening up with expectation. He did not -notice 
 his mother's attempt to frown him down. 
 
 " Well," said Uncle Stephen ; " I first made an offer to 
 Betsy when I was about thirty years old. She was a year or 
 two older than me, and not at all handsome, but there was 
 a principle in all she did, and a sturdy independence about 
 her, that pleased me. She heard me out, and answered mo 
 like a woman. ' Stephen Leath,' she said, ' I respect you 
 because you are an old friend of mj brother's, and because I 
 never knew you act unlike a man. —I respect you too much 
 to burden you with a 'ri'ife, whose only portion woul d be an 
 old' bed-ridden mother ; for I will never leave her, Stephen, 
 and she shall not be thrown upon you. Let us be the friends' 
 we have always been, and say no more about it.' I tried to 
 alter this decision, but in vain. Some years after, when old 
 Mrs. Marples died, I was in the same mind, and tried my 
 fortune again. ' Stephen,'"she said, ' you are looked up to 
 as a thriving man, but you are not thriving : you know no 
 more of the value of money than a child ; you squander it 
 on all sides, and I vrill not help you to squander it. I will 
 be your friend and advise you, if you like to take my ad- 
 vice, but I will be nothing more. You have a position to 
 keep up, and so have I. While David Marples (that was 
 her brother) holds his head high above me, and disowns both 
 me and my brother becaiise he has money and we hav6~ 
 none, I will not become the wife of any honester man. We 
 must be friends still, Stephen, and nothing more.' This was 
 the substance of what Betsy said, mixed up with some ob- 
 jections on the score of irreligion ; which, however, went for 
 nothing, as she had made up her mind independent of them. 
 Now, if • Betsy Marples had been a less nobler woman than 
 she was, she would have been my wife." 
 
PBEJUDICB AT HOME. MT 
 
 " Well, I'm sure you've some wonderful things to relate," 
 said Mrs. Ratoliflfe. 
 
 " That's just the sort of aunt I've been wanting all my life,'' 
 said George ; " she would have given me good advice, and I 
 might have profited by it." 
 
 " I'm sure that's very complimentary to me, George, con- 
 sidering that I've been giving vou good advice all your life, 
 and to little purpose," said Mrs. Ratcliffe. 
 
 " My dear mother," said George, " with the best intentions 
 in the world, you haven't the knack of going the right way 
 about it. You've always taught me that to keep up a gen- 
 teel appeai'anoe in the world was the' main business of life. 
 Now Pve discovered for myself that gentility is all smoke !" 
 
 "You've very odd, notions, I know," said his mother, 
 "and it's astonishing to me who you inherit them from. 
 You would even have been mad enough to give up your 
 profession, if you had not seen that doing so would kill me. 
 You have not an atom of proper pride^Jibout you. Instead 
 of directing all your energies to the maintenance of your 
 dignity as a professional man, I verily believe you wouldn't 
 care about turning to any common drudgery to-morrow." 
 
 " I certainly shouldn't, if my besetting sin, indolence, did 
 hot" place an almost insuperable' bar to my pursuit of so 
 manly a course," said George. " I have, however, a horror 
 of growing grey in this service, that may one day save me. 
 It is a lamentable fact, mother, that if there be anything 
 substantial about gentility, I have never been able to grasp 
 it. I have always been mocked by its shadows. I walk in 
 and out of yonder old Gray's Inn like the ghost of some- 
 thing gone by, or the shadow of something yet to com«, and 
 not as a creature of flesh and blood, animated by the con- 
 sciousness of having a purpose in the present. I have no vo- 
 catiori there, no pursuit, no position. I don't know-^ soul 
 in the plac« — I am alone in my glory ; and it sometimes 
 strikes me that gentility and idleness would have been more 
 formidable as a primal curse than labor, from which springs 
 all the good there is upon earth, I suppose the meaning 
 of the latter "was, as Byron says, ' That curse shall be for- 
 giyenesa!' Certainly we should get on very badly without 
 
■ 228 MARGARET ; OR, 
 
 " You are quite eloquent to-day, George, for you," said 
 Uncle Stephen. "If you can keep up a little longer,! 
 
 ■ should like to recommend to your serious consideration the 
 folly of shirking people in the street, or so conducting your- 
 self that no one can make anything of you. I have observ- 
 ed this several times. It is as if you took your indecision 
 into the highway, as a special protection to your gentility ; 
 or are you really modest, after all ? A great deal depends 
 upon your allowing people a right understanding in this 
 matter." 
 
 George reddened very much. 
 
 " The truth is, uncle," he said, " I got into this habit at 
 school, and it has grown with my growth. It had been so 
 dinned into me that I must make none but genteel acquain- 
 tance, and gentility is so hard to be defined, that I never felt 
 sure I was doing right. Then I believe I had a natural 
 propensity to associating with what my mother calls inferiol 
 people ; and what with trying to correct myself in this re- 
 spect, and ascertaining what was exactly proper, I got hope- 
 lessly perplexed and confused." 
 
 Uncle Stephen laughed. 
 
 " Your getting into that state was your own fault, not 
 mine i" said Mrs. Ratcliffe. " I always gave you plain in- 
 structions to maintain your own dignity, irrespective of oth- 
 er pepple. If'you had done that from the first, there would 
 have been no question about your position, and no diflSoulty 
 in upholding it." 
 
 " My dear mother, you don't understand it. The dignity 
 of a school-hoy is a very small matter at best, and no one 
 cares about it. In fact, by mounting the stilts, one only in- 
 sures the certfiinty of being brought lower than agrees even 
 with the dignity of the miniature man. At college I had 
 no money to compete with the rich, and the studious did 
 not take to me. Since I entered . chambers it has been still 
 worse. A briefless barrister*has small opportunity for being 
 fussy ; and the fact is, a high head don't answer with an 
 empty pocket. As to shirking people in the street. Uncle 
 Stephen, what's a poor fellow to do ? Some of the barristers 
 in my place, who have more work than they can attend to 
 have established a bowing acquaintance with me ; but they 
 
PEEJCDICK AT HOME. 229. 
 
 will bow one day ; and overlook me altogether the next. I 
 can't look out for notice of that kind, and the predicament 
 makes me nervous. If I see one of these big-wigs coming, I 
 shoot out of the way, or turn back. I always had a horror 
 of meeting acquaintances ia the stftet, even intimate ones. 
 It's constitutional, and I can't help it. Well, I shall not 
 go the wrong way for loving greetings in the market- 
 place." 
 
 " The fact is, that under an injudicious training for what 
 you were never fitted to be, you have come to nothing, 
 George," said Uncle Stephen. " I expect that you will 
 rouse up some day and set yourself right. By Jove ! if I 
 could do nothing better, I'd set fire to Gray's Inn and run 
 away by the light of it !" 
 
 " Well, I suppose I must do something desperate some 
 day," said George. "I can't make matters worse than they 
 are." 
 
 " I am sure you might make them a great deal better than 
 they are by conducting yourself in a proper manner," said 
 Mrs. Eatcliffe. 
 
 " But what, my dear mother, do you call a proper man- 
 ner?" 
 
 " Why, I think you ought to throw yourself in the way 
 of those barristers who have shown an inclination to notice 
 you, instead of shunning them as you do in such an undig- 
 nified way. Here you have been nearly two years in cham- 
 bers, and you have no business, and not a single acquaint- 
 ance in the place." 
 
 " Come, mother, I have one, and a capital fellow he is, 
 too." 
 
 " A poor attorney's clerk !" said Mrs. Eatcliffe, with a 
 sneer. 
 
 " Poor enoijgh. Heaven knows,'' said George. " He has 
 a hundred and twenty pounds a-year, and a wife and seven 
 children to keep out of it. He was an attorney himself, 
 remember, once, and if he had had a little more money to 
 begin with he would not have passed the prime of his life 
 in slaving for old Reeoe, who keeps his carriage, and would 
 see him rot in a work-house." 
 
230 
 
 " I wish you wouldn't use that language," said Mrs. Rat- 
 cliflFe. 
 
 " No, George, be genteel, whatever you do, especially in 
 Speech," said Uncle Stephen. " As to that poor fellow, El- 
 liott — a capital fellow he is, too, I believe — his position re- 
 moves him out of the pale of your sympathy. You should 
 certainly look higher, George, considering^ your position." 
 
 I saw that George in his simplicity, and Uncle Stephen 
 out of pure rii:alice of the sly and good-humored Irind, were 
 g'etting Mrs. Ratcliffe into a high state of irritation and 
 wrath. Uncle Stephen seemed to see this, too, and he re- 
 sumed at once the stern manner and authoritative tone, that 
 seemed to me more natural to him. 
 
 "Now you understand, Eliza," he said, "that for the pres- 
 ent Miss Marples must find a home with you. You have 
 only to make it as pleasant to her as possible. As she has 
 nothing better to do just now, and has some skill in needle- 
 work besides, I wish her to be replenishing her wardrobe. — 
 You can help her here, for you have excellent taste in dress, 
 I know, Eliza. Margaret has the money, and you must su- 
 perintend her purchases. I have a deal of business on my 
 hands, and you won't see me again till to-morrow, at din- 
 ner." . 
 
 " Can't you stop with me ?" said Mrs. Ratcliffe, turning, 
 to George ; " you can sleep on the sofa-bedstead." 
 
 '' Why,, the fact is, my dear mother," said George, and he 
 stammered, and hesitated, and blushed, " I — I — that isj 
 having nothing to do, you know, I have been employing, 
 myself in teaching the yaung Elliots. You can't think how 
 they are getting on I Henry and Lucy in French, and all 
 the rest in writing and reading. They've quite a natural 
 talent for learning that makes it a pleasure to teach them, 
 and they expect me this evening, and would be so much dis- 
 appointed if I didn't go. I'll stop with you to-morrow night, 
 if you like." 
 
 " Well, upon my word, you're enough, to drive one 
 mad !" said Mrs. RatchSel " I never saw anything like 
 
 you.l" 
 
 " Thou most veracious of fellows !" said Uncle Stephen, 
 slapping George on the back ; "I wonder if fate has in re- 
 
PREJUDICE AT HOME. 231 
 
 serve for thee prevarication and a latch-key ! Come, Eliza ; 
 be thankful for a bit of truth — a rare thing in this world ! 
 — for which I would vouch with my last breath. George 
 might be better occupied for himself, but I know he never 
 has any worse occupation than this. That is a great thing 
 to say. Come, be quiet." 
 
 " I'm sure," said Mrs, Eatcliffe, putting her pocket-hand- 
 kerchief to her eyes, " he might as well turn schoolmaster 
 at once ; he would then earn something, at all events." 
 
 "Not a bad idea, either; eh, uncle?" said George, who 
 seemed all afloat about his future prospects. 
 
 Uncle Stephen laughed again, and after kissing his sister 
 and me, walked out. George took leave of his mother and 
 followed bim, and then turned suddenly back and approach- 
 ed me, and held out his hand. 
 
 " I'm a very thoughtless fellow. Miss Marples," he said, 
 "and you musn't consider me uncivil, for I believe my thick 
 head will only entertain one idea at a time. Good-bye for 
 the present. I hope you'll feel quite at home till we see 
 you again." 
 
 George was evidently a generous fellow, but I could not 
 help feehng something like contempt for him. I had no 
 idea of a man allowing himself to be unnerved by the mere 
 punctilios of life, while the glorious opportunities of his 
 youth and vigor were slipping away from him unheeded. — 
 If I were in his place, I thought, I would be something de- 
 cided, if only a hewer of wood and a drawer of water. — 
 There would have been no fear of my forming any serious 
 attachment to him, if the resolution'that strengthened with^ 
 in me frorn day to day had not put away from me every 
 thought of the kind. 
 
 I obeyed Uncle Stephen so far as to expend upon such 
 articles of dress as I most needed a portion of the contents 
 of the purse he had left in ray hands. Mrs. Eatcliffe, as 
 constrainedly polite as ever, and evidently acting upon com- 
 piilsion under her brother's control, accompanied me in my 
 shopping, and readily agreed with me as to the prudence of. 
 being economical. Understanding that I had ali'eady filled 
 the situation of governess, she supposed that her brother in-: 
 tended to send me out again in that capacity ; and the idea 
 
232^ MABaABBT; ob, 
 
 seemed to afford her so mucli relief that, besides not being 
 able to guess for my own satisfaction what his intentions 
 really were, I could not disabuse her of it. With plenty of 
 work before me, I sat down, wondering over it what the com- 
 ing days were about to bring forth. 
 
 Uncle Stephen and George dined with us every day, and 
 both spoke of my grand-father and Aunt Betsy : of the one 
 as daily recovering strength, of the other as being hopeless- 
 ly stricken. On one occasion, when Mrs. Ratcliffe was out, 
 I spoke to them of James Graham. 
 
 In the midst of many overwhelming troubles of my own 
 I had neglected to answer a letter from Mr. Smithson, and 
 to the one I had written from Mrs. Ratcliffe's house, I had 
 received no answer. The actor did not remain long in one 
 place, and my late communication had doubtless missed him. 
 Time had not weakened, nor trouble diminished my affection 
 for the dear boy, or my anxiety about him. In this interval 
 of quiet both came back to me more powerfully than ever. 
 I spoke to these two of my first meeting with him, of our 
 brief intercourse and sudden parting. 
 
 " God bless my soul !" said George, in the midst of my 
 narrative. I glanced at him as he sat with his hands clasp- 
 ed and his mouth open. This seemed only to be an expres- 
 sion of the feeling of which he was capable, and I went on. 
 
 " Margaret," he said, interrupting me again, — " may I call 
 you Margaret ?" 
 
 "To be sure," I said. 
 
 " Then, I think, Margaret," he continued, " I think I can 
 tell you something of that boy ; I think I have seen him ; 
 I think (now don't you fret), I think he is dead !" 
 
 I had my work in my hands, but I dropped it, and 
 raised and clasped them. " Bless God !" I said involunta- 
 rily. 
 
 Involuntarily, for I had no great trust in God, but some- 
 thing within my spirit compelled me to feel that it was 
 better so than that the child should sfiU be lost in tl^ 
 world. 
 
 " I'm' glad you take it so," said George. " I'll tell you all 
 I know about it. Mrs. Elliott was one day out shopping, 
 and she had a parcel to carry home. Just such a little cur- 
 
PBBJUDICE AT HOME. 233 
 
 ly-headed handsome fellow as you describe, asked if he might 
 carry it for her. She had children of her own, and, as she 
 afterwards said, she was unable to resist his appealing look, 
 he seemed to be so pretty and intelligent, and so forlorn. — 
 She took him home with her, and gave him food, and kept 
 him with her own children till Elliott came in. He ques- 
 tioned him, and learned from his replies that he was quite 
 destitute — out in the world on his own account, to get a 
 living as he could. He said his father was dead, but begged 
 they would not question him further about his family, as he 
 could not say anything more. And they did not trouble 
 him with questions, but kept him all night, and the next 
 morning Elliott took him to the office and employed him in 
 going errands, and I've heard him speak ol the little fellow 
 as a marvel of intelligence, and docility, and gratitude. One 
 morning he did not come to the office as usual. Elliott made 
 inquiries after him, and found that he had been seized with 
 scarlatina, and conveyed to the work-house. It was in the 
 work-house that I first saw him, for Elliott took me with 
 him ; but he was then dehrious. I afterwards saw him die. 
 He repeated all the names that you have mentioned, over 
 and over again : Margarejt and Mary, Lilly and Ellen. Mar- 
 garet, he said, would tell mamma all about him ; and towards 
 the last, he said an old man vfith white hair was beckoning 
 him up to God." 
 
 I wept as I never had done before, and never have done 
 since. Real, bitter, heart-wringing grief mine was ; for, be- 
 sides loving the boy as I did, there was something in his 
 spirit kindred to mine, that held us two together in the eter- 
 nal tie that may not be broken, and that can only be a pro- 
 tracted agony to them whose trust is not strong in the Lord. 
 I vainly wished that I had seen him once more — that I had 
 been with him when he died. 
 
 Uncle Stephen, who had been walking about the floor, 
 and making attempts to clear his throat, came to a dead 
 stand. 
 
 " Now let us have done with this," he said. " If you live 
 
 to be old, Margaret, you may recall this circumstance as a 
 
 tender memory of the past, but at present you have no time 
 
 to waste in lamentations that are altogether idle. You say 
 
 10* 
 
234 makharbt; ok, 
 
 you wish to see your aunt agafa — now the fact is, Marga- 
 re"t, she has had another btroke, and is so near her end, be- 
 sides being quite unconscious of everything, that I think 
 your going quite useless. . I expect to hear that she is dead, 
 and a very liappy release death would be for herself We 
 shall still have enough to do and tliink about in the world. 
 Your grand-father has got an idea in his head that nothing 
 I can say will drive out of it. He is determined to return 
 to " 
 
 " To !" I said, now thoroughly roused ; " what will 
 
 he do there ?" 
 
 " His purpose is to see his brother. He thinks it right 
 that they two, who have not exchanged a word together for 
 nearly thirty years, should meet once before they are called 
 away from earth, and, if possible, speak words of forgiveness 
 and peace to one another. He hopes, too, that, in consider- 
 ation of his infirmity and sufferings, and the destitution h© 
 has himself no help for, David will, out of his abundance, 
 allow him a small annuity to supply his own few wants. It 
 is only right that they should meet : they are brothers, and 
 there should be peace between them : but David, the sole 
 aggressor, is about as likely to attendto these petitions, es- 
 pecially the latter, as I am to fly. I have, however, said 
 nothing to dissuade Thomas from acting as he thinks fit. — 
 This is Friday, and on Tuesday he wishes to set out. I shall 
 accompany him, for I have myself some business to transact 
 
 at ^ which, as I told you, I quitted for good some months' 
 
 back. At present, there can be nothing like order amongst 
 us ; you must wait with patience till I can let you know 
 what is to be done." 
 
 I had lately importuned him several times on the subject 
 of the useless life I was leading ; and I could obtain no 
 mora satisfactory reply than this. It seemed expedient to 
 
 await the result of my grand-father's visit to , and to 
 
 see Aunt Betsy, if so near her end, quietly laid in the earth 
 before I rebelled, as I felt I must, if it became necessary. — 
 Uncle Stephen must have been sufiiciently acquainted with 
 his sister's character and with mine to understand how both 
 were punished by this juxtaposition. 
 
 My grand-faiher' wished to see me, and I went to him. — 
 
PREJUDICE AT HOilE. 235 
 
 Uncle Stephen, who aocompanied me, walked in the garden 
 witti Jem while we eoiiversed together. 
 
 " You have been early taught, my dear child," he said, 
 "that life is a very serious matter, even if only with refer- 
 ence to this brief time, with its troubles and difficulties. — ' 
 You arQ not a novice in trouble now ; you understand that 
 it may be borne, if not overcome. It will not do for either 
 of us to encroach further than we shall be compelled to do 
 upon the generosity of Uncle Stephen." 
 
 I assured him of my earnest aoquiesence in what he said, 
 and of my determination to seek employment. 
 
 " I expect no less from you," ha said ; " I know you would 
 not be able to endure a life of idleness and dependence, espe- 
 cially on such reckless liberality-as Uncle Stephen's. He has 
 been the same man all his life, -lavishing what he had upon oth- * 
 ers and forgetting himself ; and it grieves me to the heart 
 that we should be this burden to hira, for I know he no 
 longer possesses the means. And the Lord has not lost 
 sight of him, Margaret, though he now resists the teaching 
 of the Lord. He will be remembered for his large heart ; 
 he will be gathered into the fold ; I know and feel it, and 
 the assurance gives me deep joy !" 
 
 My grand-father clasped his hands and looked upward 
 with an expression of calm, holy trust in his eyes. I 
 shrank into myself: how little he knew that I also had gone 
 astray ! 
 
 " As for you, Margaret," he continued, " you have learn- 
 ed to trust God rather than fear man, and I shall expect 
 you to meet trial boldly. You understand for what I am 
 going yonder. If David's position and mine had been re- 
 versed — if he had suddenly become poor, and I rich — I 
 should have been more eager to do what I am about to do 
 now ; but, as it is, my chief motive may be misconstrued : 
 I may not even be able to obtain»an interview with him. In 
 that case, Margaret, and in any case, if he does not consent 
 to help me, so that I may not be a further burden upon Ste- 
 phen Leath, I shall enter the work-house at , and end 
 
 my few remaining days in it." 
 
 I uttered a cry, and started up. There were already ar- 
 rows as of death, piercing my heart : I might have said, 
 
236 MARGARET ; OR, 
 
 " Why should I be stricken any more !" I resisted being 
 beaten down further : I was inclined to say, " This is not the 
 way to bring me back to God !" 
 
 My grand-father's distress aroused me. I relapsed into a 
 resentful apathy that he mistook for resignation. Under its 
 influence I was enabled to leave him quietly, understanding 
 how we might meet again, if ever. 
 
 This was a trouble which I could not impart to so genteel 
 a person as Mrs. Eatoliffe, neither had Uncle Stephen any 
 idea of it, for my grand-father would not subject himself to 
 his remonstrances. On considering the subject calmly, I 
 could but acknowledge that my grand-father was right in 
 the determination he had come to. It remained with my- 
 self to make another attempt at turning my acquirements 
 ox Taj industry to account. 
 
 And more than ever I distrusted Uncle Stephen's wis- 
 dom : my foolish dreams were dissipated, and I despised my- 
 self for entertaining them., On the second day, after m~y 
 
 grand-father and Uncle Stephen's departure to , Mrs. 
 
 Eatoliffe spoke to me of the latter, of his thoughtless liber- 
 ality and his diflBculties. 
 
 " You would scarcely believe now. Miss Marples," she said, 
 "from the way in which my brother goes on, that he really 
 has scarcely enough money to keep himself, without en- 
 croaching upon the small sum that he secured to me and 
 my son, years ago. I do not murmur at his doing, that if 
 he really needs it — of course it would be very ungrateful in 
 me if I did — ^but I know Stephen so well that I should not 
 be surprised if he brought us all to beggary together. He 
 has been taking me to task for not buying you, or leading 
 you to buy for yourself, expensive dresses. I reminded him 
 that your aunt being so near death, all you could shortly re- 
 quire, would be a change of mourning. He had overlooked 
 this fact altogether — and man are in the habit of blinding 
 themselves similarly — but he has more than the ordinary 
 thoughtlessness of his sex. Now I think you must feel that, 
 under any circumstances, you will not require expensive 
 dresses." 
 
 This was coming to the subject at once, and in a way that 
 I did not at all dislike. I had reason to believe that Mrs, 
 
PREJUDICE AT HOME. 237 
 
 Eatcliffe spoke nothing but tlie truth, and I was not in a 
 condition to deal with delusions. I informed her of my de- 
 termination with regard to myself, which she approved of 
 highly. She also promised to make inquiries, and give me 
 all the assistance in her power towards obtaining a situation, 
 either as governess or as needle-woman in some large estab- 
 lishment ; and with this understanding between us, we be- 
 came much better friends. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 On the fourth day after my grand-father's departure, rath- 
 er late in the evening, Q-eorge came in hurriedly, and asked 
 if his uncle had been there. Mrs. Ratcliife had gone out to 
 tea, and I answered him. 
 
 " We have not seen anything of him," I said : " has he 
 returned from ?" 
 
 " I expect he has," said George. "I waited for him yonder, 
 and as he didn't arrive, I thought he must have come on 
 here. I've missed him — I'll just post back." 
 
 " Is my grand-father come, too ?" 
 
 " No, I think not," said G-eorge, who had got outside the 
 door, and s.eemed in a desperate hurry ; " but you'll hear all 
 about it from Uncle Stephen." And he darted off. 
 
 At about ten o'clock Mrs. Ratcliffe returned, in hjgh good 
 humor. She had won at cards, and it was one of her weak- 
 nesses to be greatly elated by that kind of success. I told 
 her what George had said, and the news seemed to please 
 her. 
 
 " Oh, then, there's no doubt but that David Marples has 
 taken charge of his brother, as it was only his duty to do, so 
 rich as he is," she said. " We shall see my brother in the 
 morning, and hear all about it." 
 
 I expected to hear something very different from this ; 
 and though I had been prepared for it, I felt a strange sink- 
 
238 
 
 ing of the heart. Presently a loud knock was heard at the 
 door, and Uncle Stephen came in with G-eorge. 
 
 " My grand-father," I said, " has he returned ?" 
 
 " No, he hasn't !" said Uucle Stephen. " Here, George, 
 take my coat out with you, and your mother too ; I want 
 to talk with Margaret alone."- 
 
 They went out, and Uncle Stephen sat down beside me. 
 A sic^pning presentiment of something dreadful came over 
 me ; for my grand-father had premised that Uncle Stephen 
 should write to me on the day after their arrival, and he 
 had not done so. 
 
 " He is dead !" I said, determined to know the worst at 
 once. 
 
 " No, he isn't," he said, '' nor likely to die just yet. Da- 
 vid Marples is dead : died just when he had no business, 
 after leading a useless life. That's part of my news." 
 
 "Then my grand-father has not seen him ?" 
 
 " Gonfouiid it ! yes, he did !" said Uncle Stephen, rising 
 up and walking about, and sitting down again : " that's 
 what I'm coming to. Now don't you break down like a 
 very woman, but collect all your energies, as I'm obliged to 
 do. Your grand-father went to see his brother the day af- 
 ter our arrival, and riot meeting with him then, he went 
 again yesterday. He had not been gone an hour whea a 
 report reached me that David Marples was dead, and that 
 his brother was accused- of murdering him." 
 
 I did not utter any cry, but I turned sick and faint. 
 Uncle Stephen went out and returned with a glass of water. 
 
 " Nonf don't be weak and nonsensical, Margaret," he said ; 
 " I've told you the worst, and your grand-father is not it 
 any danger. " It's all stuff. David Marples has had an at- 
 tack of apoplexy before : yesterday he got in a passion and 
 finished himself off. In falling down he struck his i-ight 
 temple against the fender, and produced a severe contusion. 
 Your grand-father rang the bell violently, and raised his 
 brother's head up as well as he could ; for David Marples 
 was twenty stone in weight, and Thomas has not at present 
 much more strength than a fiy. They were found in this 
 state. There was a poker upon the floor, with which the 
 doctors agree that the wound uoon the temple might have 
 
PREJUDICE AT HOME 239 
 
 teen, produced. Thomas was in great consternation and 
 grief, but he gave a straight-forward account of the truth, 
 and people affect not to believe him. Bless my life ! in a 
 town where the man's harmless and quiet character is so 
 well known, where his piety, is so well known,, this is too 
 bad. But who cares so little for piety, on its own account, 
 as your church and chapel-goers ? David Marples, with his 
 money, and his blustering importance, and his ostentatious 
 liberahty, was the sort of man to be considered a valuable 
 member of society. The society at is loud in its lamen- 
 tations and demands for justice. I spoke out, and got my- 
 self insulted. Never mind, when this comes before a jury,, 
 the truth must appear. George is going to conduct the 
 defence ; and I can tell you that when he feels — and he 
 feels strongly now — he can brighten up and speak like a 
 man." 
 
 " And my grand-father is " 
 
 " Well, he's in custody, of course. He begged me to come 
 off at once to you, and I'd a long string of pious exhorta- 
 tions to deliver that I forget, but which you may be able to, 
 imagine for yourself. Don't, however, fall into the vulgar 
 error of having no self-dependence. It is almost an explod- 
 ed one, and it won't do for you. Just rouse yourself up, 
 and be determined to bear whatever may come. You may 
 rely upon my doing my best." 
 
 If any inclination to turn to God in extremity, and- ac- 
 knowledge my. helplessness and implore his mercy, had lin- 
 gered in my heart, it departed from me now. That my 
 grand-father should be allowed to fall into this fearful trou- 
 ble at the close of a blameless, life, and after so much severe 
 suffering, scattered, the remaining atoms of my faith, and I 
 stood bare and desolate as a tree whose last leaves have been 
 swept away, by the tempest. My heart might be wrung, 
 but I resolved not to be more the slave of circumstances 
 than I could help ; I would reserve for future action the 
 strength that I had hitherto lavished in a useless waste of 
 feeling. 
 
 My grand-father had begged that I might not be allowed 
 to see him, as an interview could only be productive of ad- 
 ditional pain to both. I could scarcely hav« urged such a 
 
240 margabkt; ok, 
 
 request, as I could only undertake the journey at a great 
 cost to Uncle Stephen. George came in the room before 
 his uncle left me, and held out his hand frankly, and 
 promised me he would do his very best. He said he felt 
 confident of success. He had brightened up wonderfully, 
 as his uncle said he could ; be who shrank from the appari- 
 tion of an acquaintance in the street seemed to experience 
 no failure of nerve at the idea of standing before an assem- 
 bly of men in defence of one whom he considered to be in- 
 jured. 
 
 I passed a sleepless night, for do what I would, the tide 
 of a terrible agony swept through my soul. I did not see 
 Mrs. RatcliflFe again till the next morning, and then she had 
 so much the air of a martyr, — was evidently so horrified at 
 having me in the house after what she had heard, shrank 
 from me so perceptibly, and spoke so shortly, that if it had 
 beea possible to make me more miserable than I was, here 
 was opportunity enough to sink me altogether. But I 
 did not feel inclined to sink in that way. I would neither 
 anticipate the worst, that might never happen, nor suffer 
 myself to feel too keenly the silent but well-expressed con- 
 tempt and reproach of one whose good opinion would really 
 have been worth very little.' For my own comfort as well 
 as hers, however, T determined to rid her of my presence, if 
 possible ; and as she had said that a friend of hers promised 
 to make inquiries for me at a large dress-making establish- 
 ment in Bond Street, I ventured to ask if she had heard 
 anything. 
 
 " Seally, Miss Marples," she said, with a stare of utter as- 
 tonishment, " what do you take us for ? How can I give 
 you a recommendation under present circumstances, or al- 
 low any friend of mine to interfere in- your behalf ? I should 
 get myself into pretty disgrace. I assure you I have never 
 been used to anything of this kind." 
 
 I had never been used to it either, and that was, perhaps, 
 the reason why it had not occurred to me that, as the grand- 
 daughter of a reputed murderer, an unenviable notoriety 
 would mark me out, go where I would. This difiBculty 
 seemed to set me fast. Fortunately, the assizes were close 
 at hand ; and as some one would have to endure my pres- 
 
PREJUDICE AT HOME. 241 
 
 ence in the meantime, I thought the punishment might as 
 well fall upon her as upon any one else. 
 
 I, therefore, settled quietly down to my work, and toot 
 Rttle notice of her. I wrote to my grand-father, and had 
 diflSculty so to word what I said that he should not be 
 shocked by any outburst of the impetuous and bold resent- 
 ment that I dared to entertain against this deeree of Provi- 
 dence, and that I found it hard to keep down. I went to see 
 Aunt Betsy, who still lingered, several times ; for Uncle Ste- 
 phen and George being now busy, and rarely coming to the 
 house, I could go in and out as I chose v/ithout exciting any 
 notice. 
 
 When I look back upon those dark days I wonder how, 
 Laving nothing better than my own strength of endurance 
 to trust ill, I got through them so well as I did. As the 
 day of trial approached, I felt it hard that I might not be 
 allowed to be near my grand-father, and I said so to Uncle 
 Stephen, but he called the wish foolish, and I knew that he 
 was going to great expense and did not need to be burdened 
 with more. I read an account of the supposed murder in a 
 newspaper that came to the house, and the statements made 
 respecting my grand-father astonished me, and staggered, 
 my faith in his acquittal. It was currently reported that 
 Mr. David Marples ha,d been compelled to discountenance 
 his brother, on account of the disgraceful conduct of the 
 latter's children, and in which he had encouraged them. — 
 Now, as my grand-father's children had all died in their in- 
 fancy, except my mother, who was herself little more than 
 a child when she died, I could not help wondering if " the 
 children" meant herself and me, and if the disgrace, which. 
 we had small part in bringing about, was to this extent in- 
 tolerable to an immaculate world. My heart burned with 
 indignation, while my face flushed and my head bowed un- 
 der this shame, I had intended to be very courageous ; I 
 had resolved to preserve my self-respect in the midst of 
 depreciation : but my courage and my equanimity were 
 severely tried when I came in close contact with the world 
 and its opinion. 
 
 I never knew more of my grand-father's trial than what 
 was told me by Uncle Stephen. He was found guilty, but 
 
242 MARGARET ; OR, 
 
 was i-espitted, and finally sentenced to transportation for life, 
 I passed a long interval of unconsciousness, during which I 
 was additionally burdensome to Mrs. Ratcliffe, and a convict- 
 ship being about to sail to Australia, I only recovered in 
 time to be carried, like a child, to take leave of my grand- 
 father. If I had had any remaining faith in saints and 
 martyrs I might have looked upon him — so meek, so un- 
 complaining, so steadfast in his strong trust — as being both ; 
 but as it was, I only regarded him as one hardly used by a 
 godless world, and vainly dear to myself; and my heart 
 bled inwardly, and I relapsed, and lay for a long time be- 
 tween life and death. 
 
 . Uncle Stephen had provided me with a nurse, and I sel- 
 dom saw anything of Mrs. Ratcliffe, When I was at length 
 well enough to go down stairs she would not remain in the 
 same room with me. This, to do her justice, was not any 
 horror of me individually, but, rather hT way of expressing 
 disapprobation of Uncle Stephen's liberality, to the detriment 
 of his own relations. He was compelled to notice conduct so 
 marked that it could not escape ray observation, and one 
 evening be launched out against her in a manner that only 
 heightened my distress. 
 
 " Confound the woman !" he said, after telling me not to 
 mind her, " she goes to church twice on Sunday, and I don't 
 know how many times in the course of the week, and yet 
 she has never learned that it is expedient to show a little of 
 what is styled Christian, mercy ! I've been wondering for 
 yeai's, what people goto churches anichapels'for. Your 
 grand-father's last request to me was, that I would not at- 
 tempt to undermine your religious principles. I told him 
 that you had strong common sense, and that in the 
 matter of faith you would be sure to judge for yourself. My 
 God ! haven't you seen what Christians are ? If you 
 meet with a man who is a man, or a woman who is a wo- 
 man, and nothing more, you may find something human 
 about them ; but the quibbles and quirks, the hypocrisy and 
 meanness, and heartlessness, and treachery, and sordidness of 
 pious people, floor me altogether. It was chiefly the pious 
 
 people of that floored your grand-father. The sneaking, 
 
 pitiful hounds, took part with wealth and power ; and when 
 
PEEJDHICE AT HOME. 243 
 
 I tried to get up a petition in his behalf, they refused to sign 
 because the dean refused. They pretend to act under spirit- 
 ual guidance !" 
 
 " And you asked the dean to sign ?" 
 
 " I did. It was gall and wormwood to me, but I asked 
 him. 1 would have seen him hanged before I would have 
 asked him a favor under any other circumstances — I was 
 driven to it, Margaret!" (He had been walking about the 
 room, and he now stopped and struck his clenched hand 
 upon the table.) " If your grand-father had not been tried 
 by a jury of Christians he would now be free ; for they do 
 not judge as betwixt man and man, but according to the 
 distinctions, that every form of religion has tended to intro- 
 duce, until we have become a mass of corruption alto- 
 gether." 
 
 " Uncle Stephen," I said (I was still weak, and was mora 
 fitted to receive the gentle ministrations of one of my own 
 sex, than to enter into any contest with him or the world), 
 " let us speak of other matters. I shall soon be strong 
 enough to do something for myself, and you know that I 
 cannot remain here. I am placed under the ban of a 
 double disgrace, and I must deal with the world as I find it. 
 Cannot I change my name and. try again to earn what will 
 keep myself? You once spoke of some plan for me, Uncle 
 Stephen : what was it ?" 
 
 " Don't drive me mad !" he said ; " you see I am half 
 mad already. Before you were born, Margaret, when I saw 
 how my friend and his child were wrongcvl, I vowed to de- 
 vote what energy was in me to redi-essing them,- if possible. 
 I had a burning desire for revenge upon Colonel Leigh that 
 has never left me, and that could not have been stronger if 
 Alice had been my own child. This feeling made me take 
 to educating you. I determined that you should rise in the 
 world, in spite of the dean and his clique. I found vou apt 
 and intelligent, and as you grew up I saw that you would 
 be beautiful. All this favored the plans I had for you. In 
 short, Margaret, I considered it would be an easy matter to 
 find for you a husband, — wealthy, if not high in rank — and 
 so secure for you position and protection at once. In Lon- 
 don I had opportunities for getting you out in good society 
 
244 MARO-ARKT ; OB, 
 
 Well, this was my scbeme : to get you married before you 
 had seen and suffered enough to make the knowledge of 
 your position of itself an intolerable burthen. Your grand- 
 father frustrated this design for a time— in one respect he 
 defeated my purpose altogether : you have'suffered to an 
 extent that has roused 'all the . energies of your character 
 before you have yet made a step in advance towards securing 
 the power, without which you can only suffer on. All the 
 powers of this world seem to be against me; here I am' 
 again foiled . by this most unhappy affair of your grand- 
 father's. But never mind : we are compelled to bear the 
 life that is given us — we have a right to make it as tolera- 
 ble as possible to ourselves. In a httle time we shall see." 
 
 Uncle Stephen's scheme would, at any time, have been 
 an impracticable one for me, though even yet he did not 
 seem inclined to give it up. As he said, I had suffered to 
 an extent that had roused all the energies of my character ; 
 I was too independent and self-willed to yield to dictation 
 in matters of importance ; and I, too, saW'the necessity of 
 trying to make a life like mine as tolerable to myself as 
 was possible. There was nothing in that life that I would 
 share with another : its difficulty, and sorrow, and shame, 
 above which I could rise in my sohtude, with a proud con- 
 sciousness that I and all of mine had preserved our integ- 
 rity and borne ourselves bravely, would only have been so 
 many waves to overwhelm me, if I had sordidly attempted 
 to barter them for position' or wealth. It seemed so clear 
 that I could only stand alone, that I could not help marvel; 
 ling at Uncle Stephen's want of common foresight in think- 
 ing otherwise. Thus much- of good had come out of 
 evil, that present circumstances had rendered contention 
 with him unnecessary. 
 
 " Just now, Uncle Stephen," I said, " I must think of the 
 means of existence. I neither can nor will remain a bur- 
 then upon you. I would rather at present enter some dress- 
 making or millinery establishment, for there I could at least 
 earn enough to keep myself, .which is more than I could 
 well hope for, in going out again as a governess ; and there 
 would be less inquiry into my connexions. Do you think 
 you could procure me a situation of this kind ?" 
 
PRBJITDICB AT HOME. 245 
 
 " There is time enough to tUnt about that," said Uncle Ste- 
 phen. " At present you are not well enough to do any- 
 thing ; you must keep quiet." 
 
 " I am well enough to work now," I said ; " I cannot, I will 
 not remain here. I shall never be any better while I stop 
 here. I require some rest of mind as well as body, and I 
 cannot rest in this state of dependence." 
 
 " You are uncomfortable enough, I know," said Uncla 
 • Stephen. " What can I say to this woman, with whose fol- 
 lies I have borne all my life, and whose principles I don't 
 understand ? Save me from any useless contention with 
 her, Margaret, bv keeping quiet till I have time to look about 
 me." 
 
 I dreaded nothing so much as any contention between 
 these two on my account. If I had been strong enough to 
 do so, I should have looked out for myself at once ; and .sit- 
 uated as I was, I would willingly have taken the burthen 
 and the disgrace of my presence from all of them, if possi- 
 ble. For a disgrace as well as a burthen I was to Uncle 
 Stephen, too, though he would not acknowledge it. It was 
 laying a hard task upon him, even asking him to procure 
 me a place. I was aware of all this, and tbe^thoughts that 
 burned within me, kept my bodily strength down. I had 
 busv, though as yet shapeless schemes for the future, that 
 kept my brain in t constant state of activity ; I resolved by 
 some method or umur to get the means of rejoining ray 
 grand-father, for the thought of our eternal separation upon 
 earth, under such circumstances, was more than I could en- 
 dure. Surely I had not been endowed with a bold spirit for 
 no purpose, nor was I uselessly haunted with a conviction 
 that I must go on at any risk towards something yet to be 
 attained, whatever difficulty lay in ray path ! I felt as one 
 who has lost his way in the dark, and feels conscious that a 
 glimmer of light'would enable him to reach the end of his 
 journey in safety. I waited for one step forward in a fever 
 of impatient hope. 
 
 I had seen little of George since his journey to , the 
 
 county town where my grand-father was tried, for his sym- 
 pathy was of the intense kind that distresses to the extent of 
 embarrassing expression, and he rather shunned me ; but I 
 
246 MAKaABET ; OE, 
 
 thought more highly of him than ever, for many reasons. 
 Uncle Stephen had given me an account of his eloquent ap- 
 peal on my grand-father's behalf, which had obtained for 
 him the commendation and notice of men high in the pro- 
 fession, and which, doubtless, had its weight in procuring 
 a commutation of the sentence. I began to love him as' a 
 brother, not only because I felt that I owed him a debt of 
 gratitude, but because I believed there was much that was 
 noble in his nature ; and I was grieved that there was so 
 much on every side to interdict a free communication be- 
 tween us. 
 
 I had not seen Aunt Betsy since my grand-father's trial. 
 From Uncle Stephen, who visited her frequently, I learned 
 that she remained in the same state, and now that I was 
 strong enough to go out, I determined to see her. I was 
 sitting, one day, expecting Uncle Stephen to come in, when 
 George entered in evident agitation. 
 
 " Miss Marples — Margaret," he said, " are you alone in 
 this house? is my mother gone out ?" 
 
 She had gone out, as she frequently did. 
 
 " Uncle Stephen sent me," continued Qeorge, hurriedly. 
 " He thought your firmness andgentleness would efi^ectsome 
 good in the midst of the great distress for which we would 
 enlist your sympathy. Will yon at once accompany .me on 
 an errand of mercy ? I will explain to you further on the 
 way." 
 
 , I expressed my willingness to go with him, and after 
 hastily putting on a bonnet and shawl, I accompanied him 
 to a coach that stood at the door. As we were driven 
 along, he told me that his friend Elliott had that morning 
 shot himself, and that his widow and children were as yet 
 in too great distress to consider that they were left destitute. 
 If any one should be inclined to think it extraoi^linary that- 
 I, in my brief career, should have witnessed so much hu- 
 man suffering and calamity, I can only say, that any one 
 placed as I was, favorably for sucli acquaintance with mis- 
 fortune, may see enough of it from day to day, uiyrrily and 
 complacently as the world seems to go on for them that 
 know no more of the struggles and trials of poverty than is 
 furnished by newspaper paragraphs. It would have been 
 
PRBJCDICE AT HOME. 247 
 
 odd if anytliing better kad met my view under the circum- 
 stances in wbich I was placed. As regarded myself, I had 
 been singularly fortunate in meeting with kindness. I had 
 not suffered the worst extremity of distress. 
 
 The Elliotts occupied apartments in a street near Man- 
 chester Square. George led me into a room where I found 
 Uncle Stephen and Jem surrounded by six children, the eld- 
 est, a boy of about ten, all excejjt the baby crying bitterly. 
 Jem held the baby upon his knee. I had not seen him 
 since my late heavy trial, but Uncle Stephen had told me 
 that his grief had been immoderate. I approached him and 
 held my hand out. 
 
 " Oh, Miss Margaret," said the poor fellow, bursting into 
 tears, " I can't get life out of nothin' nohow now, though 
 there's life enough to be had, too. Somehow it all goes 
 wrong." 
 
 I took the baby from him, and understood from Uncle, 
 Stephen that the landlady was up stairs with Mrs. Elliott, 
 and that the dead man lay in the next room to us. I shud- 
 dered at the sight of a long towel, very much saturated with 
 blood, lying upon a chair. George took it up and went out 
 with it, and presently returned. 
 
 " I sent for you, Margaret," said Uncle Stephen, "know- 
 ing that you would feel for these poor children, and that 
 you would help us as far as you could. You are scarcely in 
 a condition to be taxed so heavily, but you see we are at 
 our wit's end in this case. The Elliotts, like many others 
 who have been reduced in the world, and then kept down, 
 have no friends. Christianity provides nothing better than 
 a work-house for desolation like this, and we wish to keep 
 away from it, if possible. George and I are going to look 
 over poor Elliott's papers, and see how his affairs stand ; but 
 they must be desperate. He has a brother in the country 
 well off : but, bah ! we all know what brothers generally are 
 when poverty stands in the way. I know old Reece, Elli- 
 ott's governor, for whom he has slaved these twelve years, 
 and I'll see what can be made of him. Have you any mo- 
 ney left, Margaret ?" 
 
 I drew from my pocket the purse he had formerly given 
 me. I had spent only a small portion of its contents, and 
 
248 MARGAKEI ; OR, 
 
 I had since wished to return it tobim, but he would not take 
 it. 
 
 " Make use of it for anything that is wanted here, Mar- 
 garet," he said, "for just now I am out of money, but I' ex- 
 pect to get some in a few days. This is altogether distress- 
 ing, Margaret. Elliott's eldest child, a poor, pale, overtask- 
 ed girl of fourteen, is a sewer in one of the great fiddle-fad- 
 dle establishments that you want to enter. M present, she 
 knows nothing of this misery, and we think it best to let 
 her alone till she comes home at night. Can you stop here 
 all night ?" 
 
 I said I would. 
 
 " That's right," he said. " As to me, I'm not of much 
 use, for I waste half my time in considering what had best 
 be done first. Confound it ! I seem to have been born for 
 no purpose but to be a plague to myself, for as to any real 
 good I ever did, with all iny striving, where is it ?" 
 
 Baby had taken a fancy to my curls, and pulling them so 
 as to draw my head aside, I caught a glimpse of George 
 with his arm round the eldest boy, who lay sobbing ttpon 
 his shoulder. 
 
 " Come, Harry, my boy," he said, " this will never do.— 
 You must be a man for your mother's sake. Little Frank, 
 there, bears up better than you do." 
 
 The boy turned his swollen eyes in the direction of little 
 Frank, who was seated on a low stool before 3* chair, on 
 which his arms rested, and his face was buried in them. I 
 fancied he had wept himself to sleep. 
 
 " Come, George," said Uncle Stephen, " we mustn't waste 
 time now ; let us see what can be done." And the two 
 went out into the other room. 
 
 Jem had got two 6f the little girls upon his knees, and 
 was trying to amuse them. I called to the third to come 
 and kiss baby, who jumped in my arms and seemed inclined 
 to be very happy. As to Harry, who sat helplessly in the 
 chair where George had left him, leaning against the back 
 of it with his hand across his eyes, I did not so well, know 
 how to deal with him. Perhaps he knew better than my- 
 self to whom to iiee for consolation. 
 
 It was late in a September afternoon, and the shadows 
 
PREJUDICE AT HOME. 249 
 
 were deepening round me, wten a hurried step was heard up- 
 on the stairs, and the door was burst open, giving entrance 
 to a very slender, pale young girl, who held in her hands a 
 large wicker basket lined with oil-cloth, which she flung up- 
 on the floor before running up to the boy Harry. 
 
 " Oh, Harry," she exclaimed, throwing her arms round 
 his neck, " tell me it isn't true what I have just heard down 
 stall's — tell me it isn't true, or I shall die !" 
 
 The boy's grief was aroused afresh, and he only replied 
 by sobbing convulsively. I beckoned to Jem to take the 
 baby, for I thought the girl would faint. I went up to her 
 and threw my arms round her, and for several minutes she 
 reeled about, wringing her hands, and neither weeping 
 nor saying anything. At length she burst into a .passionate 
 fit of weeping. What she said, and how the children began 
 weeping afresh, and how poor Henry's frame shook as if the 
 soul would burst out of it, I cannot take upon me to relate. 
 When she at length became calmer she glanced at the 
 basket. 
 
 " What shall I do ?" she exclaimed. " I feel as if I 
 could not take this now. I ran nearly all the way, that I 
 might have time to call here for a minute and see how you 
 
 all were. I did not expect ." Here her grief burst out 
 
 afresh. 
 
 " Cflu I take this anywhere for you ?" I asked. 
 
 " Will vou be so good ?" she said, looking up to me. " It 
 is a dress for Miss Wilson in Portman Square. We sat up 
 all night with that and others. O God ! I have not seen 
 my dear, dear father, since yesterday morning !" 
 
 If I had not held her up she would have fallen to the 
 floor. She was a slight burden, but I was myself still weak, 
 and we staggered together. I got her to tell me the num- 
 of the house ; and telling Jem I should be back presently, I 
 went out with the basket. 
 
 By inquiring, I easily found my way to Portman Square. 
 When I was admitted into the house a lady's-maid hurried 
 to me, and desired me to follow her up stairs with the bas- 
 ket, saying as we went that Madame Campan ought to be 
 ashamed of herself for not sending the dress sooner. In an 
 upper passage she took the basket from me and told me to 
 
260 MARGAEBT ; OK, 
 
 wait, with the additional information that she expected I 
 should catch it nicely. 
 
 I had not waited long when the maid re-appeared, and 
 told me to walk forward. I heard as I went along a con- 
 fused sound of angry voices, that assailed me altogether 
 when I entered a dressing-room, in which I found the lady 
 of the house and her two daughters. One of the young 
 ladies had the dress I had brought, on ; and besides being 
 too tight in the waist it was deficient in some kind of trim- 
 ming, that the three directed my attention to at once, ex- 
 pecting that I knew all about it. 
 
 " Whatever have you people been thinking about to treat 
 us in this way ?" said the lady of the house. " It, is per-, 
 fectly scandalous, and you knew the dress was wanted to- 
 night." 
 
 " I'm sure' I hate the sight of it ; I could tear it all to 
 pieces !" said the chief sufferer, giving a savage pull at the 
 dress that seemed to me a very superb one. " I'll not wear 
 it ! I can't wear it ! and I'm to be kept at home all through 
 those dirty wretches !" , 
 
 " Don't worry yourself so, dear," said the mother ; " I'll 
 never patronize that Madame Campan again, you may de- 
 pend upon it. I always thought she kept an idle, dressy ' 
 set of young women, that didn't kuow their place or care 
 what they did. What hand have you had in this work ?" 
 
 " Why don't you speak, you great fool !" said the other 
 young lady, enforcing the appeal to myself, that at the mo- 
 ment I was too much confused to answer ; " can't you open 
 your mouth ?" 
 
 ye pampered and soft-spoken daughters of the rich ! 
 how many amongst you are capable of thus opening your 
 mouths to an inferior, before whom you can make the exhi- 
 bition with impunity ? 
 
 1 suggested that I could soon remedy the defect of fitting, 
 and in my zeal I ventured to touch the dress which the 
 young lady had not taken ofi'. 
 
 " JJon't come near me, you nasty, impudent thing !" 
 she said, recoiling in horror ; " go and stand by the door, 
 do ?" 
 
 " Who taught you to take such liberties with ladies 1" 
 
PBEJtTOIOE AT HOME 261 
 
 screamed the mother, growing redder in the face. " I'll 
 call Madame Campan to account for this !" 
 
 " Oh, they're all a lazy, impudent set !" said the other 
 young lady, throwing herself into an easy chair, and yawn- 
 ing, i 
 
 " Take the dress off, love, and let that person run back 
 with it," said the mother. " There's three hours to spare, 
 and they must bring it back in one. Mind that !" she said 
 to me. 
 
 This was a poor opportunity for bringing in the trouble of 
 the young girl whose place I had taken ; but after listening 
 for several minutes to explanations about trimmings that 
 only puzzled me, I confessed that I did not understand, — 
 that I did not belong to Madame Campan's establishment, 
 and I mentioned the affliction that had detained the proper 
 messenger by the way. 
 
 " And that's the way we're treated !" said the young lady, 
 ■actually bursting into tears ; " we've to put up with any- 
 thing because vulgar people must attend to their own 
 troubles !" 
 
 " Why didn't you say that at first f ' said the elder lady. 
 • Get out of the house, and don't show your face here again 1 
 Watson, see her out, and take the dress to Madame Cam- 
 pan's yourself." 
 
 The maid seemed to be quite as much put out of her way 
 as her mistresses, and she continued railing at me as she 
 drove me before her. I am not sure that I did not send 
 something like an anathema back upon the house as I walk- 
 ed out of it. 
 
 Thus far and no farther extended my experience of you, 
 O women of Engand! It may be said that I met with ex- 
 treme examples of meanness, and arrc^ance, and heartless- 
 ness ; but while the wealthy are allowed to rise in self-de- 
 fence, let the voices of faded girls and squalid women be for 
 once heard in reply, from crowded work-rooms or cheerless 
 garrets, or from wherever they may be allowed to congre- 
 gate as machines set apart for hard use ; not recognizable as 
 human, except in their scantily-rewarded toil ; not thought 
 of in their wants, that make life a daily death ; not cared 
 for in the spiritual Regeneration, for which there is no help ! 
 
252 Margaret; ob, 
 
 Tlie five that was ready Jigtted in my spirit was fed by 
 what I had just seen and heard, till it blazed up into a 
 fierce flame. I was already familiar with this system, whifeh 
 produces tyrants and slaves of the worst description ; but 
 the contempt and insolence expressed in the words and 
 loots of those people were more than I could promise my- 
 self to take tamely, even though they included seven or nine 
 shillings a week as it might be, and the privilege of setting 
 up all night to adorn sumptuous robes for my betters. I was 
 clearly not fitted for my station ; I was unfitted for Christi- 
 anity, which enjoined upon me humility and forbearance, . 
 and patient waiting for the vengeance of God. I could and 
 would protect, if not avenge myself. "I will not remain in 
 this country !" I exclaimed passionately as I walked along ; 
 " if there be any spot of earth where the air of freedom 
 may be breathed I will find it out. cruel and cursed place, 
 in which I and mine have suffered so much wrong and ago- 
 ny ! I here trample upon your institutions which- you dig- 
 nify with the names of Eeligion and Liberty ; I laugh to 
 scorn your attempts to beat me down, till I become loath- 
 some to myself ! You shall not annihilate my intellect 
 and then deliver me over to fie privileged murderers in 
 your mad-houses ; you shall not drag me into your work- 
 houses, and reduce me to the pauper imbecility that sinks 
 man beneath the level of every brute that walks or crawls ! 
 I will not wear my fingers to the bone and heap the dust 
 of death upon my heart daily, for the miserable privilege of 
 sustaining an impoverished and degraded existence ! I hate 
 you ! Oh, my God ! how I hate you all, ye people who 
 claim the admiration of the world !" 
 
 I spoke in a high tone, and I felt bold. It mattered not 
 to me that I was poor and apparently helpless ; I had all 
 the strength of my indignation, as well as the strength of 
 my youth and native energy, to bear me through. 
 
 Before- I had reached the abode of the Elliotts I had 
 made up my nina what course to take. 
 
 One miserable misgiving lingered with me, — I thought it 
 quite probable that the poor slave, Lucy Elliott, might lose 
 her situation through the wrath that I had helped to kindle 
 in Portman Square. I told her of the dissatisfaction of the 
 
PREJ0DICB AT HOME. 253 
 
 great personages upon whom I had called, but she did not 
 seem to heed it then ; and Jem was that night despatched 
 to inform Madame Oampan on what account she was com- 
 pelled to absent herself from her work. 
 
 In pureuance of the resolution I had taken, I sent Jem 
 to Mrs. Ratcliffe, with a request that she would for- 
 ward by him whatever belonged to me. As Uncle Stephen 
 seemed to wish me to remain with the Elliotts for the 
 present, I was enabled to do this without exciting any re- 
 mark. Nothing was clearer, however, than that I had no 
 business there, where I was only adding to the expense and 
 doing little good. Lucy was quite capable of attending to 
 the children, if, as the poor are compelled to do, she put 
 forth all her energy in the midst of heavy grief; and thera 
 were women in the house, who seemed to attend willingly 
 and sympathizing to Mrs. Elliott. 
 
 There was, however, mourning to be made, and I defer- 
 red my purpose while there seemed a chance of my -being, 
 really useful. Late in the evening of the second day (an 
 inquest had then been held and a verdict of temporary in- 
 sanity returned), Lucy and I were busily at work and all 
 the children, except Harry, were in . bed, when Uncle Ste- 
 phen and George came in. With all his kindness of heart. 
 Uncle Stephen was not the sort of man to mince matters 
 out of a regard for the feehngs of those he addressed. — 
 This he would have called an unmerciful sort of mercy, and 
 he declared that he left all sorts of prevarication to the 
 Christians. He and George had found poor Elliott's affairs 
 in even a worse condition than they had expected, — there 
 was no money, and he was, for him, deeply in debt. Old 
 Eeece, as Uncle Stephen called him, declared that he was 
 himself a creditor, and he would not give a penny towards 
 helping the widow and children. All the hope that re- 
 mained rested upon the brother that had been written to. 
 Uncle Stephen blurted out these facts without remorse, gaj- 
 nishing them with some severe comments on the injustice 
 and inhumanity of old Reece. 
 
 " If the slave-driving curmudgeon," he said " had paid 
 Elliott a fair salary for what he did. — conducting altogether 
 a business that yielded above two thousand a-year — nothing 
 
254 Margaret; or 
 
 could have been said. He knew that he had the man in his 
 toils, he knew that his large family compelled him to slave 
 on, and he took advantage of this knowledge to keep him 
 down. He spoke to me of Elliott as he would not have 
 spoken of a dog, — that is the worn-out man's reward. He 
 said a hundred a-year was a princely income, and that those 
 whb could not live on it deserved to starve. He is a Metho- 
 dist, and he occasionally holds forth himself, and in due 
 time he expects to be translated to what he calls ' the king- 
 dom.' Deliver us from a kingdom so peopled ! I tell you 
 what, George, I more than even don't care a fig for the laws, 
 civil and religious, with which we are saddled like so many 
 donkeys. If I met this old Eeece in a convenient place, I 
 would no more mind easing him of what I consider to be 
 due to Elliott, than I would mind shooting down a wolf. — 
 There is a tale — a legend I'm afraid — of one Robin Hood, 
 a sturdy Saxon, who in the midst of Norman oppression 
 stood boldly up for the poor of his race, and successfully 
 levied contributions on the rich by whom they had been 
 despoiled; and if a like career was possible in these days, 
 in which redress is also needed, I should desire nothing bet- 
 ter for myself." 
 
 "Uncle Stephen," said George, dryly, "you have a pecu- 
 liar way of teaching the young idea how to shoot. As 
 your plan is an impracticable one, we must turn to some- 
 thing else. Harry writes well ; and he may be got into an 
 office where he can do a little in that way, and run errands. 
 You, Lucy, say that your mother has a rich uncle some- 
 where : what's his name ?" 
 
 " Bontoft," said Lucy. 
 
 " What!" said Uncle Stephen, "the Bontoft of the firm 
 of Bontoft and Greaves, City merchants 1 I knew them 
 years ago, — both men of immense wealth." 
 
 Lucy said it was the same. 
 
 " Why, Margaret," he said, turning to me, " that's the 
 fellow you met with. Do you think anything could be made 
 of him ?". 
 
 " I'm afraid not," I said. " He has a great dislike to the 
 sight and sound of misery ; indeed he won't believe that 
 there is any real suffering or want in the world." 
 
FBBIGSICB AX HOMS. 335 
 
 " A eommon complaint,^ said Unde Steves ; " I vidi I 
 had the coring of it! We'll tiy, him, however. HI go to 
 him mTSelf : gire me his address." 
 
 Being iiim^ed vith ihi^ Unde Ste^ien and George 
 k^ 1^ ; and Lncf and I ocmdnned our labois thnm^ the 
 
 CHAPTER XTTT- 
 
 Poos E31iott v^ hnried dee»if] j, TTncIe Stephen, George 
 and Heniy attending him to the grave. Hie brother of the 
 d@ad man acted wdl-^-peifaa^ to the b^t of his alnlit^. — ■ 
 Be seat SStf poonds, and pro^red to t^e two of the diil- 
 dren nnder his ehaiga. Ifothing, however, conld be made 
 of Mr. BoDloA. "Diere seemed to be a £dr chance of the 
 Sunilr being povided for, as Gemge took entire diaige of 
 Heniy, and Unde ^iephen proposed to establi^ the widow 
 in some smsil way of bnanes. 
 
 There was no pretext for my remaining any longei' wi£h 
 die Elliotts, and I would not retom to Mis. Batdiffe's. Ihe 
 members ^ this family all interested me greatly ; and Qmy 
 lewavded my sli^t serried with an esc'^ of grated at- 
 taehm^it that pained me, knowing how soon and suddenly 
 I should be sepaiated &om them, probaUy to meet no more 
 in thfe world. -On the day fdlowing the fiuieial I went out 
 eaily, tdKng Ijucy I should soon relnm. During the time 
 I readed wid> Ihe Bont<rfits I had heard Golond L^h 
 spijken €i, and understood that he lived with an nnd% a 
 G^ieial Iiagfa, in Babdey Street. J had at the time no 
 tiiougfat <rf stMing np the address with the vkw of making 
 any lidnre use <^ it : Mit now, when I had tried my b^^ 
 and ^w noAing but &ilnres or impc^lnliiKS on every side, 
 — now, wh^ I lud become resolate to leave these and by 
 my fortune elsewhere, and oea^ to be a burden upon one 
 whoBS genensity had been snffidently ta^ed, I thon^t I 
 had a r^it to ^k that manls h^ ; ^id I nored mysdf to 
 tiie imdeitaking: 
 
253 MASOABET ; OB, 
 
 And in the ordinary acceptation of the term, it did not 
 require much nerve in me to do this. The great difBouIty 
 was, overcoming my strong disgust. I cared nothing for 
 the wealth or rank of Colonel Leigh ; my religious educa- 
 tion had done me the service of levelling worldly distinc- 
 tions, so that I cared nothing for power unaccompanied by 
 such worth and honor as my own soul compelled me to 
 look for in those who commanded my respect. I had at- 
 tempted to write, but could find no words that would satisfy 
 me : for I did not intend to supplicate or reproach, and I 
 felt it was best that we should meet face to face. 
 
 I knew the number in Berkely Street, and I knocked 
 boldly at the door. A porter opened it, who seemed half 
 asleep. I saw in the hall, the leathern chair from which he 
 had just risen, I asked if Colonel Leigh was at home. 
 
 " Don't know," said the man, looking at me from head to 
 foot. " What's your message ?" 
 
 " I want to see him on particular business, which I can- 
 not explain to you," I said. " Will you inquire for me if 
 he is at home ?" 
 
 The porter again surveyed me in a very leisurely manner ; 
 then he told me to walk in, and he would inquire. 
 
 While I stood upon the door-mat he rang a bell, and 
 presently a man having the appearance of a valet came 
 down stairs. The porter mentioned my errand, and asked 
 if his master was at home. 
 
 " I don't know, I'm sure," said the valet . " I don't think 
 he is. You'd better leave your name and call again." 
 
 " I have no time to call again," I said ; for I had seen 
 this kind of prevarication at Mrs. Wilton's and at the Bon- 
 tofts', and I felt sure that Colonel Leigh was in the house. 
 " If you are not sure that he is out, you can at least in- 
 quire." 
 
 " What name did you say ?"_ said the valet ; and turning 
 his face towards the porter, I saw him put his tongue in his 
 cheek. His cool impudence, and leering look, brought for- 
 cibly back to me, the heartless horror that had preceded my 
 birth. I felt sick with disgust. There was still nobbing t( 
 dismay me further ; but that loathing — ^how was I to over 
 come it! 
 
PKBJUDIOE AT HOME. 25l 
 
 " I did not mention any name," I said ; " and I have no 
 name to give. Tell Colonel Leigh that I wish to speak with 
 him on a matter of life or death — that I must speak with 
 him." 
 
 Perhaps mj flashing eyes had some mesmeric power upon 
 the man, for he bowed rather politely and left mo. The 
 porter sank in his ehair and commenced reading a newspa- 
 per. I had been standing at least ten minutes, when the 
 Valet reappeared and told me to walk up stairs. I followed 
 him into a narrow gallery with doors on either side. A 
 very erect and portly gentleman, in a dressing-gown, who 
 seemed to be upwards of sixty, honored me with a fixed 
 stare -as he walked out of the room, into which I was imme- 
 diately ushered. There was a breakfast equipage upon the 
 centre table, and Colonel Leigh, also in a diessing-gown, 
 was seated with his slippered feet upon the fender. He rose 
 as I entered, and, to my relief I heard the door close behind 
 me. 
 
 " The devil !" he exclaimed, after looking at me for a 
 second. 
 
 " You cannot shrink from me more than I do from you," 
 I said; "and it is in your power to make our conference 
 very brief. I wish to leave this country, to which, if pos- 
 sible, I will never return. If I could have procured the 
 means of doing this by my own labor I should not have 
 troubled you ; I already owe a large debt to one, on whose 
 generosity I will encroach no further. I want twenty 
 pounds ; will you supply me with this sum ? In return I 
 promise, that if I can help it, you shall never see or hear 
 of me again." 
 
 " Well, but — aw — it's an infernal bore ! What you say 
 about not being able to earn money is all stuff, if you 
 choose to work," said Colonel Leigh, lounging over the fire 
 and tossing his slipper from his foot and catching it. — 
 " There's plenty to do in England, and you'll be no better 
 off in any other country, if you're not industrious." 
 
 " I have not found work plentiful in England," I said ; " at 
 least, not such work as I can or will do." 
 
 "That's it!" said Colonel Leigh ; "just what I'm told is 
 the case all over the country. The English work- people are 
 
258 MARGARET j OR, 
 
 too well fed, and get saucy. I have it upon good authority, 
 from gentlemen, who make a business of inquiring into such 
 matters, that thei-e never was a time when work of all kinds 
 was more plentiful, or better paid than, just now. It's no 
 use telling me it isn't so, you know ; I am in possession of 
 facts." 
 
 " I have no inclination to dispute with you," I said. — 
 " Will you, or will you not, grant my request ?" 
 
 " Upon my soul, I haven't got twenty pounds about me," 
 said the Colonel ; " you might as well try to get blood out 
 of a stone. You must not suppose that I am rich, because 
 you fiud me pretty decently lodged and attended. This' 
 house and every thing in it belongs to my uncle. I have 
 been poor all my life, and remain so. 
 
 " Then I am to understand that you refuse ?" 
 
 " I didn't say that : you've a devilish cool manner, where- 
 ever you got it. In the course of a short time I may b« 
 able to send the money, if you leave me your address." 
 
 " I have no address. You speak of an indefinite future., 
 and I have no means of existing in the present. Give mo 
 now any sum that will enable me to set my foot on the 
 coast of France." 
 
 He had been paring his nails with a penknife ; now he 
 turned and looked at me. 
 
 " Do you speak French ?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " That's lucky for your present purpose, but it would have 
 been better for you if you had been brought up to regular 
 work. You must understand that you have no 16gal claim 
 upon me. However, as far as ten pounds go I suppose I 
 must make an effort. There," he continued, taking two 
 notes from his pocket-book, and holding them out fluttering 
 in his fingers; "I hope you'll make good use of it." 
 
 " If you will place them upon the table I will take them," 
 I said. I had a horror of approaching him nearer or 
 touching his hand. 
 
 " Oh, very well," he said, with some confusion in his man- 
 ner, and he threw the notes down. I took them up and 
 was walking out. 
 
 " Stop !" he said. " I hope you are leading a " 
 
PREJUDICE AT HOME. 259 
 
 He doubtless intended to say, " I hope you are leading a 
 reputable life," but he thought better of it. 
 
 " I hope," he continued, " you will see the necessity there 
 is for exerting yourself. There are hundreds of ways in 
 which a young woman like you might earn an honest liv- 
 iiig. You are very handsome, too upon my soul ; and if 
 you marry honorably I may " 
 
 I had stopped without looking back, and now I turned 
 upon him. 
 
 " It cannot matter much to you how I live," I said. — 
 " Marry I never shall, for I will not bring the disgrace of 
 my connexion with you to any honorable man's hearth. I 
 do not thank you for this help ; I should not have thanked 
 you if it had been given willingly. It will be well for you 
 if, through the future, you can bestow as little thought upon 
 me as I shall do upon you." 
 
 I walked out oi the room and encountered the same erect, 
 portly gentleman, who met me full in the face, and stared 
 as before. I ran down the stairs, the porter opened the 
 door, and I found myself in the street again. It was still 
 earlv in the day, and I walked on to Piccadilly, and took 
 an outside place in the Dover coach, that was to proceed to 
 that place the next morning. Then I purchased a small 
 carpet-bag and returned to the Elliotts. I packed up such 
 few things as were most necessary, including my grand- 
 father's Bible, which I prized for his sake. Then I selected 
 a dark merino dress, the only one I could take with me, 
 and such other articles of outward attire as promised to 
 last longest. I had still much to do : I wished to see Aunt 
 Betsy once more, and I had a long letter to, write to Uncle 
 Stephen. Lucy Elliott offered to accompany me to the 
 work-house, and, late in the afternoon, we set. out together. 
 The work-house people had been more civil to me since the 
 appearance of Uncle Stephen; and Aunt Betsy, now quite 
 passive as well as unconscious, could do nothing to provoke 
 harsh treatment. She had changed greatly since I saw her 
 last. All her limbs were now paralysed ; her features were 
 distorted, her mouth twisted to one side, and her open eyes 
 appeared to be fixed. The nurse told us that we did not 
 see the worst of her ; that they had been compelled to 
 
260 MARGARET; OK, 
 
 plaster her back with lime, in order to keep the bones to- 
 gether. All this was horrible to me. Here was none of 
 the peaoefulness that I had always associated with the ides 
 of death. 
 
 And the soul, the immortal soul, was it sleeping during 
 this prostration of the flesh ? Here was no more evidence 
 of its existence than might have been found in a dying dog. 
 I fell on my knees by the bedside, not to pray, but awed by 
 this inexplicable mystery of my own being. I brought 
 Aunt Betey's life into review before me : her early spirit of 
 independence ; her disinterested devotion to her brother in 
 his troubles ; her early care of myself, ill requited ; h^r la- 
 ter affection and courage, to which I owed so much. This 
 was her reward at last, — dying as she would least have liked 
 to die — a pauper, make the best of it we could, with only 
 strangers to close her eyes, and unable to recognize those 
 she loved if they might be present with her. I could make, 
 nothing more of it than this as I rested my face upon the 
 already dead hand and kisssed it with the passionate, but 
 hopeless, affection of earth. As my burning tears trickled 
 through the cold, inanimate fingers, I remembered the use- 
 ■ lessness of my grief. I dashed them away with a sort of 
 disdain, and kissing the distorted mouth, I took a last look 
 and walked out. 
 
 I was writing my letter to Uncle Stephen in the evening 
 when he came in. Lucy was up stairs with her mother, 
 whom I had not yet seen, and I was alone. I hurried my 
 papers away and welcomed him : I was really glad to see 
 him once more. 
 
 " For an old bachelor," said Uncle Stephen, throwing him- 
 self into an arm-chair, "I am about as much bothered as a 
 man can well be who has not a dozen children all going the 
 wrong way. I have just discovered, Margaret, that George 
 is a most undutiful dog." 
 
 "I hope not," I said ; " I am sure not : you are joking." 
 
 " I'm in no humor to joke, for I shouldn't wonder if you 
 too, turned rusty on my hands. Do you think you owe me 
 any obedience, Margaret ?" 
 
 This was a startling question, at a moment when I was 
 about to wrench myself away from all authority. I had at 
 
PBEJUDICB AT HOME. 261 
 
 no time, however, been more inclined to feel and acknowl- 
 edge how much I owed to this early friend. 
 
 " There must be something very wrong about mo if I 
 have led you to entertain a doubt upon the subject," I said ; 
 " but, oh, Uncle Stephen, my obedience, like everything else, 
 can only make me a further burden upon you : I cannot 
 bear this." 
 
 " You are a silly child ? "What do you suppose a fellow 
 like me has to live for, if he has no interest in life beyond 
 himself? If I hadn't you and Gedrge to think about, what 
 would become of me ? Mind, though, I don't bargain for 
 being plagued in the wrong way. First, with respect 
 to George ; the fellow has taken it into his head to fall in 
 love." 
 
 This appeared to me a very foolish procedure, considering 
 George's circumstances. I thought he would be better em- 
 ployed if he roused himself out of his lethargic state, and 
 struck out a new path for his exertions,, and commenced in 
 earnest the sti'uggle for independence. 
 
 " If he is serious," I said, "I hope the lady is rich." 
 
 " What a mercenary thought, off-hand ! To do you credit, 
 Margaret, you never had much romance about you ; how 
 should you, poor child ! George has had little to do, except 
 dream, all his life. He has had no real trouble, and a natu- 
 ral indolence has inclined him to take everything easy. — 
 Now, however, he is brightening up wonderfully. He has 
 conceived what I call a sublime idea — he wants to ga out 
 to Australia." 
 
 " Ah ! he will see my grand-father !" I exclaimed. 
 ' ■" Of coui-se he will } So will his wife ; so shall I : for if 
 he marries and expatriates himself, I shall certainly follow, 
 so soon as I can settle my affairs ; taking my sfster with 
 me, if she will go ; and if not, providing for her here as 
 genteelly as possible. Could you part with us all so, Mar- 
 garet ?" 
 
 I had nerved myself up to the parting with them all, but 
 not in this way. It was easier work to wring other heai'ts 
 than bear this wringing of my own. I wondered if Uncle 
 Stephen could really so leave me. 
 
 " What a blank look !" he said, approaching me, and 
 
262 MARGARET; OR, 
 
 placing his hand upon my head. " Did you think for a 
 moment that we had not included you in our scheme ? 
 Why, Margaret, we couldn't live without you, neither George 
 nor I. Look here ! what do you call this — a love-ditty t- — ■ 
 Confound all verse-makers ! I'm such a prosaic fellow my- 
 self, that if the lines hadn't heen addressed ' To Margaret,' 
 I should have been inclined to throw them behind the fire. 
 I found them in George's desk; and upon interrogating him, 
 I learned that he had dared to disobey my injunctions by 
 falling in love with you !" 
 
 I glanced at the lines placed in my hand addressed " To 
 Margaret," with a feeling approaching to terror. I could 
 not have chosen George for a husband, even if no such ob- 
 stacle had stood in the way as the mental resolve, respect- 
 ing which I had no wish to speak. 
 
 " 0, Uncle Stephen !" I said, " you cannot wish that / 
 should marry George ?" 
 
 " Can't I ?" he said. "Well, I didn't a short time agoj 
 when I thought you might do better ; but as matters have 
 turned out, and if you can put up with him — and he's a fine 
 fellow at heart, Margaret — I desirfe nothing better. He has 
 no energy of his own, except by fits and starts, and you 
 would make a man of him. Your union would reunite us 
 to your grand-father. I don't intend to hold this out to you 
 as a motive, Margaret, because your decision must come 
 from your own heart, and be unbiassed. I only want to 
 prove to you that George has my best wishes. Now, don't 
 screw up your mouth to answer me. Tm not making love to 
 you. To-morrow, George will see you himself, and you can 
 talk it over together. I must bid you good-night, for'I 
 have a deal to do, and had no business to be here so long." 
 
 "Oh, stop one minutefUncle Stephen!" I said. (How 
 much harder this had made our parting !) " Everything 
 you say, makes me appear to myself a monster of ingrati- 
 tude, and yet I am not ungrateful; everything you have 
 done for me in the past crowds upon .me now,- and over- 
 whelms me. I love you dearly. Uncle Stephen ; I would 
 do anything to please you ; anything to prove my gratitude 
 and my sense of the duty I owe you ; anything that I could 
 do ! Remember that I have said this ; for, oh, it is true 1" 
 
PBBJUDICK AT HOME. 263 
 
 " What is tlie matter with the child ?" said Uncle Ste- 
 phen, coming back and taking my hands, which, in my ex- 
 citement, I had held towards him. " Do you think I should 
 wish you to do anything that you cannot do ? Come, know 
 me better, and trust me altogether as a friend, the same to- 
 morrow as to-day, happen what will. Compose yourself, 
 now. Bless you ! bless you !" 
 
 I threw my arms round his neck and returned the warm- 
 est caress he had ever given me, and then I found myself 
 alone. 
 
 And then I tore up the letter I had commenced, and be- 
 gan another. I wrote to George, too ; siich a letter as a 
 sister might write to a beloved brother on the eve of an 
 eternal separation : but neither satisfied me ; how should 
 they ? I had said so much from which so little that I felt 
 could be understood. 
 
 I had resisted two strong temptations, — an uninterrupted 
 union with those I loved well, and the prospect of soon meet- 
 ing with my grand-father. I could not help it. I had no 
 affection to return for that proffered me by George : I was 
 firm in my resolve to battle with life alone. I might only 
 be going to my own destruction ; but an irresistible impulse 
 urged me on, and 1 felt that it was impossible for me to act 
 otherwise. 
 
 I felt that Jem, as well as Aunt Betsy, would be kindly 
 looked to by those I left behind me ; and I passed a sleep- 
 less night, thinking of them all, though I tried to avoid 
 thought, shrinking from the idea of the distress I was leav- 
 ing where I would willingly have left peace. I slept with 
 Lucy Elliott, and I did not tell her until we were about to 
 retire for the night that I should have to rise early in order 
 to proceed on a journey. She expressed surprise and regret, 
 but did not question me closely, and I left to her care the 
 letters for Uncle Stephen. 
 
 I had one brief doze, from which I started with a sudden 
 exclamation of pain and terror that awoke my companion. 
 I had been dreaming that my heart was rent in twain ; that 
 I had it in my hand, and was looking at it ; and that its 
 throb, like the beat of a sledge-hammer, shook iny whole 
 frame. I awoke with an agonizing jain in my heart ; for 
 
264 maegarbt; 'or, 
 
 several minutes I fancied I was dying ; and then I promised 
 myself, that if I recovered I would never again allow my- 
 self to feel with an intensity that, besides doing no good 
 threatened to defeat all my purposes. 
 
 " Be something decided," I said, mentally, apostrophising 
 myself ; either lisi down and break your heart in earnest, or 
 bear up with the true courage without which nothing can 
 be done !" 
 
 Against my wish, Lucy rose early to make me some 
 breakfast, and I took leave of her as if only for a short 
 time. She wished to carry my carpet-bag, but I would not 
 let her, and walked out by myself in- the gray dawn. I 
 found the coach ready to start, and it was not until I had 
 left London behind me that I breathed freely. When, at 
 half-past two in the afternoon, 1 found myself on board the 
 steamer that conveyed me away from England altogether, 
 my spirit bounded with exultation in the midst of mj re- 
 grets. 
 
 I remained upon deck all the way. The sea was rough, 
 and there was a high wind. .This tumult of the elements 
 was congenial to the mood of my mind. I was not at all 
 sick, and my enjoyment of a scene so novel to me was un- 
 interrupted. In one respect I had won the wild liberty for 
 which I had panted in suflfooating rooms, peopled by the 
 pariahs of society — the poor and hard-tasked, the neglected,, 
 and despised, and aflBioted ; abodes approached only by con- 
 tempt or pauper help ; whose monotony was only broken by 
 fresh calamity or death. I was poor as ever, but poverty 
 had ceased to appal me ; life was bounding in my heart, 
 and I had high hopes that I should never again be beaten 
 down as I had been ; that, however hardly I might be com- 
 pelled to labor, I should, enjoy some of the privileges of a 
 human being in the land of my adoption. 
 
 There were several passengers, and one aristocratic family 
 had a carriage on board. This family, which consisted- of an 
 English earl, his two sons, and a daughter, accompanied by 
 several livery, servants, valets, and a lady's maid, seemed to 
 attract considerable notice. They remained chiefly upon 
 deck, pacing up and down. As I sat, I could not help no- 
 ticing the contrast betwixt the eager looks of the plebeians 
 
PREJUDICE AT HOME. 265 
 
 — showing, I thought, ia some, a servile adoration that 
 would have well like^ to fall down and worship them ; in 
 others, a puerile admiration, mixed with much humility ; in 
 others, mere passing curiosity — and the evident obliviousness 
 to everything around them in these great ones of the earth. 
 Occupying one seat all the way, I saw enough to make me 
 marvel at the great dreath of self-respect which there is in 
 the world, notwithstanding that every one possessing the 
 power is well enough inclined to make his own importance 
 felt wherever it is convenient to do so. I managed to pre- 
 serve my equanimity, for great misery is a pervading pre- 
 sence, and a strong resolution will chain the soul, compel- 
 ling it to the contemplation of the purpose that lies before 
 it. But I could not help thinlring how all present would 
 shrink away from me if they knew who and what I really 
 was — the daughter of one who would not or could not own 
 me ; the grand-daughter of a convicted murderer ; the 
 niece of a pauper dying in a work-house. I was all this, 
 yet 1 said, " Thank God that I am nothing worse t — that I 
 do not feel the less fitted for playing an honorable part in 
 the world !" 
 
 We arrived in the harbor of Calais. I kept my seat until 
 the bustle occasioned by the departure of the greater people 
 had subsided. When I walked out upon the pier I was as- 
 sailed by several portei-s, who wanted to carry my luggage ; 
 but I had no particular place to carry it to, and said I did 
 not need their services. A custom-house officer stopped me, 
 took my carpet-bag, and poised it on bis finger. 
 " Parbleu !" he said ; " is that all 3" 
 " All." 
 
 " Mademoiselle is alone ?" 
 " Yes, alone." 
 
 He led me into the Gustora-house, and while a woman 
 ■was searching my carpet-bag I missed my purse, which I 
 had kept in my dress pocket. It contained all I had, ex- 
 cept a few shillings lying loosely in the same pocket, and 
 was the remainder of the ten pounds given me by Colonel 
 Leigh. O ye who a bound in money, and squander it heed- 
 lessly, how can you enter into the feelings that overpowered 
 me when I discovered this great loss ? What was I to do, 
 
266 MARGARET ; OB, 
 
 friendless, and. in a strange land, for I knew that money 
 was needed everywiere 3 
 
 The woman perceived my disorder, and I acquainted her 
 with my misfortune. She advised me to return to the ship, 
 where I might have dropped it, or to give information to 
 the police. I ran bacsk to liie ship, and there was a search 
 that produced nothing ; than a crowd gathered round me ; 
 then I was questioned by the police. The resitlt of it alj 
 was that I was left to shift for myself as I could. 
 
 For thotigh the police promised to make strict search for 
 
 my missing property, I had small hope of recovering it, and 
 
 in the meantime I knew not what to do. An old fishwo- 
 
 man, who had stood listening with a basket of heipin^s on 
 
 "her head, accosted me as I was walking away. 
 
 " Mon Di«u !" she exclaimed, " what will you do, poor 
 child ? Where are you going ?" 
 
 I turned to this voice of syra.paithy. 
 
 " I don't know what to do, or where to go," I said, re- 
 plying in her"own language. " This is a sad misfortune fojr 
 "me." 
 
 " Sacristie ! come with me, then," said the woman. — 
 " Everybody knows me, Mer^ Meulen I Holy Virgin ! we 
 are all Christians, and vou're not to be left to want. Come 
 on."' 
 
 I followed her very willingly, and we entered the town. 
 After passing through a fair, wide street, she dived into a 
 narrower one, and set her basket down at a door, beside 
 which stood a young man, very jauntily dressed, though evi- 
 dently of her own class. 
 
 " Jaques," she said addressing him, " carry mademoiselle's 
 luggage up to my room, and see there's a good fire. — 
 Where's Petit?" 
 
 Jaques put his head down a cellar outside and whistled, 
 'and a ragged urchin about twelve years old made his ap- 
 pearance. ^ 
 
 " Here, Petit," said mother Meulen, " take this basket tp 
 Madeleine, and tell her I sha'n't be outagain to-day. Now 
 be quick back, for I want you : do you hear?" 
 
 " You speak so loud, mother Meulon, one can't help hear- 
 ing you," said the boy. " You see if I don't fly." 
 
PRBIUDIOE AT HOME 267 
 
 Mother Meulen laugked. She had taken some of the 
 finest fish out of the basket. She desired me to follow her 
 up stairs. Jaques had preceded us with the carpet-hag, 
 •a-nd we found him in a room at the top of the house, where 
 he was busily heaping wood on the fire. Mother Meulen, 
 with great volubility, gave him ap. account of my misfor- 
 ■tnne. 
 
 " Fi, done ! what a jade Ill-luck is !" he said, turning his 
 .handsome face ito me. " Never mind, there's worse crosses 
 at sea than that. Perhaps mademoiselle was going further?" 
 
 " I intended to have proceeded to Paris," I said. 
 
 " You see, Jaques," said my protectress, " we must help 
 mademoiselle." 
 
 " True, true," said Jaques ; " we must and we will. Sit 
 here, mademoiselle, while I make the cofi'ee. Marie will 
 broil those fish for you, mother Meulen." 
 
 " So she will," said mother Meulen, and approaching the 
 inner wall .she knocked at it. Presently a brisk, bright-fcyed 
 grisette, entered the room. 
 
 " Do you want me, mother Meulen ?" 
 
 " You must broil these fish for us, Marie ; you see we 
 have company." 
 
 Marie took them and tripped out again, and by the time 
 that mother Meulen had spread a clean cloth upon the 
 table, and furnished it with bread and other requisites, and 
 Jaques had prepared the coffee, she returned with them 
 cooked very delicately ; and looking to me (for I was very 
 hungry, notwithstanding my disaster) quite a treat. 
 
 The greatest treat of all, greater even than Jaques's cof- 
 fee, which mother Meulen assured me was superb, was the 
 cheerful faces and lively manner^ of these three. Poor 
 they were, no doubt, but poverty had not crushed out the 
 gaiety of their hearts ; and they possessed true independence, 
 for there had been no hesitation in, any of them about giv- 
 ing up time, or affording other help .to myself. Ah, my 
 God ! what an important matter halt'-an-hour of time was 
 to me when I worked for less than sixpence a-day ! I won- 
 dered what that bright-eyed Marie' was, in whose face there 
 seemed to be so much irrepressible glee, and vfho skipped 
 aboat as if she were sat on wires. She did not look like a 
 
26S MAROARBT j OE, 
 
 vender of flsh, no disparagement to mother Meulen — God 
 bless her, wherever she is !), and I ventured to make the in- 
 quiry during our repast. 
 
 " Marie !" exclaimed Jaques, perhaps not understanding 
 my inquiry ; " Marie is the best dancer in Calais. She 
 sings, too divinely. You should hear her." 
 
 " Marie," said mother Meulen, " is a very good girl. She 
 helps to keep her mother, who is an invalid. She is a dress- 
 maker, and her brother is a fisherman, like Jaques there. — ■ 
 He's a wild young fellow, and helps othe):s to spoil her. But 
 what's the use of talking when one grows old ? When I 
 was young I was as gay as Marie myself. Some of these 
 days she'll marry, and if I had a son I would not wish him 
 a better wife." 
 
 I had been thinking that Jaques was her son, but in the 
 course of the evening she undeceived me. Jaques was the 
 betrothed of her daughter, who lived in service sixteen 
 miles off. They were to be married in a week, and in two 
 days he was to set out to fetch her. In the meantime he 
 seemed inclined to make a holiday of it. 
 
 It was very well to make myself comfortable with these 
 hospitable people for a day or night, but I could not remain 
 here ; and what was I to do next ? Mother Meulen and 
 Jaques wished me to remain till something was heard of my 
 purse ; but, though I was sure I had it on board with me, 
 I did not feel any hope of getting it back again. I thought 
 I could not do better than explain how I was circumstanced 
 to these people, and ask their advice. I told them that I 
 Vifas an orphan and alone in the world, and that I had come 
 to France in the hope of obtaining an engagement, as teach- 
 er of.English, in some school or family. 
 
 " There is a convent that is also a school, only three miles 
 from the chateau where Lisette lives," said Jaques. "Ma- 
 demoiselle might try there." 
 
 " Ah, yes ?" said mother Meulen, clapping her hands ; 
 " and if she didn't succeed you could bring her back with 
 you." 
 
 Jaques was to proceed to Clerons, the name of the village 
 and chateau-, in a hght cart, and as Clerons was on the road 
 to Lille, and Lille was on the road to Paris, I thought I 
 
PREJUDICE AT HOMB. 269 
 
 could not do better than go with him. Somehow I had 
 no fear of being left quite destitute in the vicinity of a 
 convent. 
 
 Thus, then, it was arranged. I slept two nights in moth- 
 er Meulen's room, and in the meantime Jaques could gain 
 no tidings of my purse. As I had no intention of returning 
 to Calias, I disabused mother Meulen of the idea that I 
 might return with Jaques. 
 
 " Then, nla foi ! you will take money with you," said 
 mother Meulen, taking a leather purse out of her pocket. 
 " Come, don't be frightened ; I haven't been slaving aE my 
 life for nothing ; I can help my neighbors sometimes : can't 
 I, Marie ?" 
 
 This was said on the morning just before Jaques and I set 
 off, and Marie was present. 
 
 " You can, .mother Meulen ; and you do. Tou are a 
 good soul," said Marie, " and you set a good example to 
 us." 
 
 " Just hear her !" said mother Meulen ; " that's the way 
 she comes over all of us : flattering one, wheedling or tor- 
 menting another, till she has it all her own way." 
 
 Marie shook her curls, and laughed merrily. 
 
 " But mademoiselle must consider," said mother Meulen. 
 " It won't do to travel without money. Prom Clerons to 
 Paris is a long way." 
 
 " But from Clerons to Lille 3" I said. " I might find em- 
 ployment at Lille." 
 
 " Lille is a fine city, and you might," said mother Meu- 
 len ; " but you will want money to take you to Lille, and 
 when there you will have to look about you. What non- 
 sense this is ! you are only borrowing, and you will pay me 
 again. Haven't I a daughter of my own, and can't I feel 
 for you ?" 
 
 " Mademoiselle," said Marie, " if you don't oblige mother 
 Meulen, she'll be quite miserable ; so shall I, if I'm compel- 
 led to think of you far off, and without money. You see 
 how the case stands ?" 
 
 So to oblige them, and myself at the same time, I took 
 sixty francs from mother Meulen, — all: I would take, though, 
 she pressed more upon me. Then I took an affectionate 
 
270 irABaARB!>t; os, 
 
 leave of therni, proinisibg to write, and moTinted Jaque's- 
 ligHt cai't — I'ather a> heavy one — and shortly left Calais be- 
 hind me, and entered the open country of France. 
 
 1 missed the' luxuriance that speaks to the eye in Eng- 
 land — tike trim fflead'ows and cosey-looking homesteads, the 
 h^dge-rows, and groves, and woods that there meet one 
 everywhere. To make up for this^ — which, however, I did 
 not care about — Jaques was a most entertaining companion, 
 gi;viBg nae his whole history, which, though very eventless, 
 bad much human interest in it, and pointing out to me eve- 
 ry object of attraction on th* road. We passed several' 
 clusters of houaesi, and Jaques exchanged hearty greetings 
 with individuals of both sexes, seeming to be well known all 
 aJong our route. "When we arrived at Clerons he put up at 
 a small inn, the" landlord of which came out to us. He was 
 a thin, wiry, little man, upwards of sixty, but he addressed 
 hiitaself to me fii-st, with all the politeness of his nation. 
 
 " Will mademoiselle allow me to help her ? Is this all 
 raademoiselle's luggage ? Walk forward ! Madame Beton 
 will be quite delighted, I'm sure. Ah, Jaques I what sad 
 havoc thou art about to" make at the chateau yonder ! 
 Antoine has had one trial with charcoal — that wouldn't 
 finish hiiM ; and now he threatens to shoot hi-mself." 
 
 " Nonsense !" said Jaques, laughing. " Mother Meulen's 
 daughter is no coquette, and I understand your jokes. 
 Now, never mind me ; I want you to attend to this young 
 lady." 
 
 Madame Beton— at least three times as large as her hus- 
 band — received us at the door; me politely, and Jaques' 
 very heartily. I was ushered into a room with a stone floor ; 
 and a repast, consisting of fritters, sweet pancakes, very 
 hard cheese, and a light wine was speedily placed before 
 me. 
 
 Jaques remained in an outer room, in which I heard him 
 conversing with the host and hostess. Presently he came 
 to me. 
 
 " I'm at mademoiselle's service," he said ; " I promised 
 another Metllen that I would drive you over to the convent 
 as soon as you liked to go. There's plenty of time to look 
 after Lisette." 
 
PKEJDDICB AT HOME. 2Vl 
 
 Plenty of time to look after Liaetta 1 Had he no fear of 
 Antoine before his eyes ? 
 
 " Ah, Jaques," I said, '' you must not neglect your bride ; 
 and mother Meulen did not understand that, in the first in- 
 stance, I wished to write to the superior of the convent. I 
 shall do this to-day, and call to-morrow ; so, you sea, I need 
 not trouble you, — which, indeed, I should be ashamed to do 
 on such an occasion. Will you return here, and shall I see 
 Lisette 8" 
 
 " Yes, mademoiselle," said Jaques, " the ch&,taeu is just be- 
 hind yon hill," and he pointed from the window ; "we must 
 pass this road, and Lisette will call to take leave of her old 
 friends. But is mademoiselle sure that I cannot do her this 
 service to-day ?" 
 
 " Quite sure, Jaques. You shall take my love back to 
 mother Meulen and Marie, and tell them that I now have no 
 fear of getting on. I shall think that you are not very 
 desperately in love, Jaques, if you loiter with me any lon- 
 ger." 
 
 Jaques bowed, smiled, colored a little, and left the room. 
 Presently I saw him walking at a quick pace towards the 
 hill. His errand might almost have been guessed from the 
 buoyancy of his step. Ah ! it is a blessed thing to feel that 
 human hearts may sometimes be light and happy. I stood 
 looking from the window, forgetting my own troubles, and 
 picturing to myself the meeting of th« betrothed lovers. 
 
 Madaijje Beton came in with some fruit, and I took the 
 opportunity of making some inquiries respecting the con- 
 vent. 
 
 " The nuns are of a strict order," said Madame Beton, 
 " and they are very poor. They devote themselves to the 
 instruction of young girls, whose poverty prevents them 
 paying for education. It is not the sort of school that would 
 require teachers that have to be paid for. Mademoiselle 
 would succeed better at Lille." 
 
 I inquired how it would be possible for me to proceed to 
 Lille." 
 
 " This is an out-of-the-way place for conveyances." said 
 Madame Beton. " Robert Dutand will pass to-night with 
 
272 makgarut; or 
 
 his wagon, but he only goes as far as Mousoron ; but from 
 Mouscron you could easily get on to Lille." 
 
 I ma,de up my mind to proceed by this conveyance. 
 Presently Jaques returned, with Lisette. He presented her 
 to me, I thought, with an air of pride, that increased my 
 surprise at finding her plain, though the expression of her 
 countenance and her manners were very pleasing. He was 
 much handsomer, as a man, than she was as a woman ; but 
 the devotion seemed to be chiefly on his side. Hearts are 
 sometimes to be won by qualities that rank far above 
 the ephemeral advantages of mere outside prettiness, and 
 Jaques Rebaud had, doubtless, secured for himself a good 
 wife. 
 
 Jaques had evidently been talking about me, for Lisette 
 in her quiet, respectful way, manifested a strong interest in 
 me and my fortunes. 
 
 " But you, Jaques, and mother, to think of our convent 
 for mademoiselle !" she said. " Why, the lady superior her- 
 self lives upon black bread, vegetables, and water, all the 
 year round, except on festivals, when they have a little fish. 
 If mademoiselle could only get to Paris 1" 
 
 I told them that I designed going first to Lille, and then 
 mentioned my intention of proceeding to Mouscron in Rob- 
 ert Dnrand's wagon. ^ 
 
 " How uncomfortable for you !" said Lisette ; " he travels 
 in the night, and is so slow. Ah ! I remember something 
 — how lucky I" 
 
 She went into the outer room, in which stood* several 
 boxes. They were her own, and had been sent on before 
 her. She unlocked one, and brought from it a pillow cov- 
 ered with black leather. 
 
 " Monsieur le Baron gave me this," she said ; " but I have 
 no use for it. You will find plenty of straw in the wagon, 
 and with the help of this, you may be able to sleep." 
 
 It was in vain that I resisted taking it ; and in the midst 
 of our contention Madame Beton carried it off, saying she 
 would see to its being placed in the wagon herself. 
 
 This excess of kindness, to which I had not been aocus- 
 tomedfrom strangers, touched me even to pain. My pov- 
 erty and destitution seemed only to increase the respect 
 
PEBJUDIOE AT HOME. 2*73 
 
 which they considered due to me. When or where in Eng- 
 land had I met with anything like this ? 
 
 A man and woman, two of Lisette's fellow-servants, had 
 arrived with her and Jaques ; and dui'ing the short time 
 that she remained at the inn, she and Jaques had to divide 
 their attention betwixt these persons, who remained in an 
 outer room, and me. During a moment when we were left 
 alone, Lisette drew out her purse. 
 
 " Will mademoiselle oblige me by borrowing a little more?" 
 she said, timidly. " You would make Jaques and me so 
 happy. Mademoiselle does not know how expensive travel- 
 ing is." 
 
 I was resolute about refusing this further help, but I had 
 a difficulty in restraining my tears'. This young girl, her 
 mother, and Jaques, were not at all extraordinary charac- 
 ters : the distribution of the Montyon prizes, has made us 
 acquainted with many such. 
 
 When th« hour of parting came, I again commended my- 
 self to mother Meulen, and promised to write. Lisette h»ld 
 out her hand, and looked as if she would have liked to kiss 
 me. I threw my arms around her neck, and we both burst 
 into tears. Tears were still blinding my eyes when, after 
 shaking hands with Jaques, I watched them both depart 
 from the window. They frequently looked back and kissed 
 their hands, and I stood till they drove out of sight. 
 
 It was early in the month of October, and the weather 
 being very fine, I took a stroll in the neighborhood while it 
 yet remained daylight. There was not much to admire in 
 the scenery if my reflections had not shut it out. Try as I 
 would to fix my attention upon the future, thought, like 
 loose quicksilver, shot in all sorts of directions, and mocked 
 my control. Now I was with the dear, innocent, old man 
 upon the sea. Would he live to reach the place of his des- 
 tination ? would he there be tasked too hardly ? would he 
 be allowed to die in that far land, alone and desolate, save 
 for his strong trust in God ? Ah ! there must be something 
 in the trust that remained' unshaken amid trial hke this ! 
 Now I was with Aunt Betsy, wondering if she was dead or 
 alive : now with Uncle Stephen and George. I had given 
 them no clue by which they might guess whither I had gone. 
 
 12 
 
274 Margaret; ok, 
 
 I hadi promised to write when I had achieved independence. 
 How long should I have to wait before I could do this ? 
 
 It was eight o'clock in the evening when the wagon drove 
 up to the door. I heard Madame Beton bargaining about 
 my fare to Mouscron, which proved very moderate. Then 
 she came to tell me that I should have some fellow-travel- 
 ers, who seemed to be very merry. Indeed, I had already 
 heard the strains of a fiddle proceeding from the wagon, 
 and I was somewhat alarmed about the company I should 
 fall into. 
 
 " It's only Jos6, the Savoyard," said Madame Beton.^ 
 " He's a gipsy, to be sure, but he's a harmless, good-natured 
 fellow ; and there's two women with hira, gipsies too : you'll 
 find them quite respectful, mademoiselle." 
 
 I did not hesitate any longer. Madame Beton said I had 
 nothing to pay; and she placed in my hand a small cover- 
 ed basket, which she said Lisette had brought for me from 
 the ch&teau. There was nothing for it but to. receive these 
 aetded obligations complacently ; and taking 3 kind leave of 
 my host and hostess, I mounted the wagon. 
 
 There was plenty of straw in it, as Lisette had said. My 
 pillow was placed against a pile of packing-cases, and I was 
 removed a few paces from my three companions, who were 
 revealed to me by the light of a horn lantern swung from 
 the wagon roof Jose was seated with his fiddle in his 
 ' hand. He was quite young, and his countenance had a wild- 
 gaiety about it that corroborated the character given me of 
 him by Madame Beton. His two companions were young 
 also, and all three possessed the large dark eyes, and glossy 
 black hair, and swarthy complexion of their race. Pres- 
 ently we heard the voice of the driver, Robert Durand, urg- 
 ing the horses forward, and the bells hung at their heads 
 kept monotonous time to their slow onward march. 
 
 The gipsies spoke together for some time in a language I 
 did not understand. At length Jose said : — 
 
 " Has mademoiselle any objections to music ?" 
 
 " Not at all," I said. " Pray, don't let me be an inter- 
 ruption to you." 
 
 For several miles Jose went on scraping his fiddle, to the 
 music of which the girls occasionally sang. Their clear voi- 
 
FBEJUDIOS AT HOME. 2?5 
 
 ces and wild melodies had a pleasing effect in the still 
 sight, and reflection was lulled as I sat listening. At length 
 they began to converse together again ; and then one of the 
 girls raised herself up and turned to me. 
 
 " Will mademoiselle let me tell her fortune ?" she said,— 
 " I can see by her face that she is to be fortunate, but I 
 must look at her hand." 
 
 " I have no faith in palmistry," I said ; " and if I had, I 
 am too poor to pay for a peep into the future." 
 
 " Then I'll tell your fortune for nothing," she continued. 
 " Don't you think that we who can look back as well as for- 
 ward may sometimes find a pleasure in searching into the 
 destinies of those we meet! Come, you have interested 
 me ; let me see your hand." 
 
 " I have no &ith, remember," I said, as I gave my hand. 
 
 Jose unhooked the lantern and held it down as the girl 
 commenced her inspection. 
 
 " It is a soft hand to tdl of such a hard life," sh« said. — 
 ^ But the tri^ is nigh past, and what a fiiture here is ! 
 You will rule over many, and will fix au empire in a strange 
 land." 
 
 " Then I shall, perhaps, go to Australia, and become 
 queen of tiie territory," I said to myself. " What nonsense I" 
 I laughed. 
 
 " Ah ! you don't believe !" said the girl. " I see that 
 your future husband is waiting for you — wearying for your 
 coming." 
 
 " There you prove yourself at fault," I said, snatching my 
 hand away, *' There are reasons why I c-annot marry if I 
 would."" 
 
 " Why, mademoiselle cannot be tfainMng of turning nun I 
 The fates are against such a sacrifice." 
 
 " That is true enough," I Said. " I have much to do be- 
 fore I shaii think of burying myself in a nunnery." 
 
 " Good," said the girL " Tou are going on and you can- 
 not help it. Bemember what I have told you in years to 
 come." 
 
 I reclined back upon my pillow. The two girls seemed 
 to compose themselves to sleep, and Jose nodded as he sat 
 with his arms folded. I lay wondering what I sho^d do 
 
276 MABCABET ; OR, 
 
 ■when I arrived at Mousoron. It would be so early in the 
 morning that scarcely any one -would be up. Seeing at 
 length that the bright eyes of the gipsy girl were fixed up- 
 on me, I asked her at what hour she thought I could pro- 
 cure a conveyance to Lille. 
 
 " To Lille !" repeated the girl ; " are you going to Lille ?" 
 
 " Who's talking about Lille ?" said Jose, starting up. 
 
 " Mademoiselle is going there," said the girl. 
 
 " If you don't mind going in our company, we'll conv^ 
 you there free from cost," said Jose, " You might fare 
 worse, even in a diligence," 
 
 This was an offer not to be neglected in the state of my 
 finances. I accepted it with thanks, and when the wagon 
 stopped, got out with my companions. Day had just be- 
 gun to dawn, and we seemed to be standing in an open road 
 surrounded by waste land. In the distance I thought I-saw 
 a clump of trees. 
 
 " We don't go on to Mousoron," said Jose, " for our peo- 
 ple lie near here. Now, Morgotte, be nimble-fingered ; and, 
 Luce, run and see to lighting the fires." 
 
 Morgotte, the girl who had told my fortune, handed our 
 luggage from the wagon, while Luce disappeared. Jose 
 having little luggage of his own, carried mine, and in this 
 fashion we set off in the direction taken by Luce. 
 
 This was not a very auspicious commencement of a ca- 
 reer so brilliant as that which had been predicted for me. 
 That I had associated myself with a thorough band of vag- 
 abonds becani,e plain to me, now that I had a full-length 
 view of my companions by daylight. Their ragged but pic- 
 turesque attire, the wild freedom of their manner and looks, 
 the savageism about them altogether, made me already re- 
 gret having acted so hastily, and filled me with apprehen- 
 sions. They might be decoying on purpose to rob, perhaps 
 to murder me. Then I considered what Madame Beton had 
 said respecting Jos?, and that there was certainly nothing 
 like ferocity about him. Finally, a growing inclination for 
 adventure, and the knowledge that I had compromised my- 
 self for the present, tended tp reconcile me to the course I 
 had taken. 
 
PKBJUDICE AT HOME 277 
 
 CHAPTER XIT. 
 
 I ACCOMPANIED Jos§ and Morgotte,' and at the distance 
 of about lialf a mile we came upon a large gipsy encamp- 
 ment. The people were all astir, and there seemed to be a 
 swarm of them, men, women, and children. There were 
 two wagons, besides several mules grazing, about, and a 
 large tent from which a number of half-naked urchins 
 peeped out. Beside one of the two fires a wrinkled old 
 crone sat smoking a short pipe ; Morgotte took me up to 
 her, and introduced me in her own jargon, adding " made- 
 moiselle will travel with us to Lille." 
 
 The old woman lifted her bleared eyes to take a view of 
 me, and then grunted out something that did not sound 
 very like a welcome. I had never seen anything so hideous 
 in human shape before ; besides that, there was something 
 really diabolical in her countenance. The men and the rest 
 of the women were not all an improvement upon Jose and 
 his companions, and I began again to be troubled with mis- 
 givings. I was presently called to partake of the contents 
 of two huge iron pots that had been swinging over the 
 fires. I was accommodated with a basin and a spoon, the 
 rest eating out of the pots as they could. This morning 
 repast was a species of soup, composed chiefly of vegeta- 
 bles ; but there was a mixture of some kind of meat in it, 
 and it was not at all unpalatable. After breakfast there 
 was a consultation among the men, and then a general sad- 
 dling of mules; and then, to my disappointment, the men 
 rode off, leaving us behind them. Morgotte and several of 
 her companions also left us, — the former told me, to try 
 their fortunes at Mouscron. She said her people would not 
 
2'73 MAROARBT ; OR, 
 
 remoye to Lille till the evening. All the day I amused my- 
 self as well as I could with the children and with watching 
 the ways of these wild people. The women who remained 
 employed themselves in washing and hanging out clothes, or 
 in sitting down and mending them. I did not observe any 
 one amongst them to whom the rest paid respect except that 
 hideous old woman, who always seemed to have a pipe in 
 her mouth, and who watched me wherever I moved to. At 
 dinner-time I opened my basket, and found in it a cold 
 roasted fowl, a loaf of white bread, and a bottle of wine. I 
 asked the others to partake with me, and the old woman, 
 who had her full share of the wine, pronounced it to be 
 very good. 
 
 It was growing dusk when we at length mustered to- 
 gether, and set out for Lille. The women and children were 
 mostly packed in the wagons, and Jose asked me if I could 
 proceed on one of the mules. I had never tried that mode 
 of travelling, but I was willing to venture a good deal to 
 avoid being half suffocated in the wagons. With Jos6 at 
 my side, and with-Morgotte and others to set me an example, 
 I got on very well ; and I was not at all sorry that our 
 march was to take place in the dark. It was cheerless 
 enough when we at length again encamped near Lille ; but 
 bright fires were soon blazing round us ; the tent was again 
 erected, and a supper similar to the breakfast prepared. Mor- 
 gotte spread a blanket for her and myself to sit upon ; the 
 old crone crouched near us with the pipe in her mouth, and 
 holding her withered hands to the blazing fire. The chil- 
 dren had been put to bed, and round the two fires the whole 
 company of men and woman had gathered. Both Morgotte 
 and JosI had informed me that we were close upon Lille; 
 and that I could easily walk there in the morning. Being 
 now free from my apprehensions, and as nothing^ could be 
 done that night, I was glad to remain where I was, with the 
 knowledge that I should have the day before me. 
 
 These wild people, to whom I now owed a debt of grati- 
 tude, inspired me with much interest. Wanderers as they 
 were, living and lodging hardly, they seemed, to be a sturdy 
 race, and, except in the use of tobacco, ther,ei, seemed to ba 
 no intemperance amongst them, the m^ chi^y driukiiig 
 
PREJUDICE AT- HOME. 279 
 
 ■water. To judge from their eager emphasis and wild ges- 
 ticulations as they spoke, they seemed to have enough of 
 native spirit to sustain them. I v?ished that they had con- 
 versed ia a language that I understood. I should have 
 liked to know what were the plans they seemed to he dis- 
 cussing so eagerly ; what objects of interest attracted them 
 in this gregarious life ; whether they had any wish or hope 
 beyond it. I had, besides, a lurking sympathy with these 
 self-made freemen, who would not be shackled with the con- 
 ventionalisms of the world. 
 
 By the flickering light of the wood fire, these wild faces 
 and extended figures became again invested with the ro- 
 mantic picturesqueness that daylight more than half robbed 
 them of. I was thinking that as we sat wg might supply 
 material for a grand picture, when Jose whom I had missed 
 for some time, approached, tuning his fiddle. 
 
 " Room there for M. de Beausset !" he cried ; " room for 
 the gipisies' friend !" 
 
 There was an instantaneous starting up of men and wo- 
 men. 
 
 " Keep your seats, and be hanged to you !" cried M. de 
 Beausset ; " why do you startle us in that way, like a flock 
 of frightened geese ? Ah, Morgotte ! I'll come and sit 
 by you, and you shall tell me my fortune again for I'm 
 quite losing heart. The world uses me very scurvily, Mor 
 gotte." 
 
 " That must be your own fault, monsieur," said the girl, 
 by whose side he had thrown himself. " You have youth, 
 health, wealth, and — and you are talented and handsome. 
 It is not such as you that the world is inclined to use so." 
 
 " Now what's the use of flattering a fellow, and making 
 him look like a puppy ?" said M. de Beausset. " What ad- 
 vantages are there in circumstances that place out of one's 
 reach the true elixir of life ? I tell you I'm ennuied to 
 death, Morgotte. Am I not compelled to come to you in 
 order to be able to live at all ?" 
 
 A deep sigh from Morgotte caused me to turn and look 
 at her. She was sittirig with, her head bent down, beating 
 her fingers together. I caught a glimpse of -the very hand- 
 some face and elegant figure of M. de Beausset. Jos6 
 
280 MARGtARBi; OR 
 
 struck up a merry tune, to ■whicli the younger gipsies, male 
 and female, commenced a wild but not ungraceful dance. — 
 When it was finished, Luce and two or three others danced 
 singly. Morgotte still remained seated beside me. 
 
 " How is this, Morgotte ?" said the new-coiner ; " it is 
 ■unusual to see you seated, and so silent, while the dance is 
 going on. Have you had a quarrel with Jose ?" 
 
 The girl started up with a bound. Disappearing for an 
 instant, she returned with a pair of castanets, and keeping 
 time to her own movements, she performed a variety of fig- 
 ures with a rapidity and a wild grace that compelled both 
 attention and admiration. The dancing went on, intermix- 
 ed with singing ; and in the -Baeantime M. de Beausset, in 
 the absence of Morgotte, seemed inclined to address him- 
 self to me. 
 
 " This is a wild, free life," he said ; " does it jfessess any 
 charms for you ?" 
 
 " None that are dangerous," I replied. " This is not the 
 sort of freedom I covet." 
 
 " You have some sense, I see ; though, perhaps, you have 
 not always made good use of it," said M. de Beauset. 
 " Let us converse in your own language ; Jose has told me 
 how you met. You must not be offended at my telling 
 you that the sooner you break off this connection the 
 batter." 
 
 " I shall leave these people to-morrow," I said,- " I am goiijg 
 to Lille." 
 
 " And altogether, how long have you been in Prance ?" 
 
 I would much rather not have been questioned by this 
 M. de Beausset, whose curiosity seemed to me impertinent. 
 I was equivocally placed, however, and I considered it due 
 to myself to give some explanation ; but I spoke proudly 
 and distantly. 
 
 " I arrived at Calais four days ago." I said. " If I had 
 not had the misfortune to lose my purse, I should now be in 
 Paris. Whatever these people may appear in your eyes, I 
 may not forget that I owe them a debt of gratitude." 
 
 " Well, that's quite right. But you must by this time be 
 aware, that when young ladies go rambling by themselves, 
 they are liable to get into scrapes. Now I'suppose the fact 
 
PMJUDICE AT HOME. 281 
 
 is, there's a hue and cry after you somewhere ? If you have 
 any inclination to return to your duty, and so forth, I will 
 gladly advance the funds to take you back to England." 
 
 " To England? never !" I said, "I abhor, I detest it !" 
 
 " Heyday ! you have wrongs to complain of, I see : 
 mighty matters, I should think, for a young girl that has 
 scarcely entered her teens. Did your governess whip you 
 too severely, or did papa and mamma find your love-letters 
 and lock you up ? Come ; was it anything worse than 
 this ?" 
 
 I was annoyed by his perseverance, and by the light, ban- 
 tering tone, in which he spoke. There was no further ex- 
 planation that I could give, and I turned from him without 
 answering. 
 
 " I didn't mean to offend you or hurt your feelings," he 
 said, after a minute's pause. " I thought you would not 
 mind taking a little advice from a person so old and experi- 
 enced as myself," (He was not thirty), " and I might be able 
 to offer you substantial help, if I knew what your intentions 
 were. I have connexions in both Lille and Paris." 
 
 M. de Beausset, gay and handsome, and looking much 
 younger than he was, did not strike me as being a very 
 sage or proper counsellor for myself However, I thought 
 he might be able to give me some information that would 
 be useful to me, and I therefore told him with what purpose 
 I had come to France. 
 
 " I have an aunt in Lille, the superior of a convent where 
 boarders are received," said M. de Beausset. " Will you al- 
 low me to recommend you to'her ?" 
 
 I was about to thank him very eagerly, when it suddenly 
 occurred to me that the circumstances under which he and 
 I met would tell sadly to my disadvantage. These ever-oc- 
 curring obstacles that roused suspicion in others, and in me 
 an impatient disdain, compelled me to act warily. 
 
 " I thank you," I said, " but perhaps it would be better 
 if I made personal application." 
 
 " And you are fully prepared with credentials, and so 
 forth 2" 
 
 Ah, my God ! the character 1 It would be needed here 
 12* 
 
SSS' MASQABGi; OB 
 
 as well as elsewhere. I fixed a look of blank dismay upon 
 M. de Beausset. 
 
 ~ " Don't be frightened," he said ; " you will^ think better 
 of the past and communicate with your friends. My aunt, 
 though a nun, is quite a motherly sort of person, and it 
 would delight her to be allowed to assure your parents of 
 your safety. Cannot you believe that I am advising you 
 for- the best ?" 
 
 " You are like many other advisers," I said : " you do not 
 understand the subject upon which you are entering so con- 
 fidently. I have no parents. I have not a single relative 
 in England. I had one friend, upon whose bounty I was a 
 burden. That, and the impossibility of attaining a liveli- 
 hood in yonder land, determined me to come here." 
 
 " Ah ! what is it you tell me ?' he exclaimed, turning fair- 
 ly round and looking in my face. " Large tears are tremb- 
 ling in your eyes, tears that are too proud to fall ! So young 
 and so desolate ! Forgive me, for how could I have suppos- 
 ed this?" 
 
 I sat gazing in the fire : I saw the necessity for curbing 
 my own emotions, and I did not trust my-voice to reply. 
 
 " You have trusted me," he said, '' and you shall find that 
 I will not abuse youi' confidence. More than ever you will 
 be welcome to my aunt, whose life is vowed to the succor 
 of the friendless and distressed. Promise me that in the 
 morning you will proceed to her at once. I will prepare 
 her to receive you." 
 
 I began to think that I could not do better. I promised 
 I would go, and he gave me the address. 
 
 " You are a rank heretic^ I suppose V he said after a 
 pause. 
 
 " I am not a Roman Catholic," I replied ; " but I have 
 come amongst them in search of Bomething like Christi- 
 anity." 
 
 "What! did you find a dearth of that commodity in 
 most Christian England, with its hundred sects ?" 
 
 " I met with few Christians there." 
 
 " That's capital ! you'll suit sister Magdalene, if only as 
 a convert. It seems hard and unnatural that you should so 
 early have had this jjitter experience of life. I'm afraid 
 
PREJUDICE AT HOME. 283' 
 
 you'll not meet with many good Christians anywhere. I can 
 confidently l-ecommend you to my aunt, however, and hers 
 is the kind of protection- of which you stand in need. I 
 will speak to her the first thing in the morning, and I pray 
 that you will not neglect to- go ; Morgette will show you 
 the way." 
 
 I again promised and thanked him ; and hastily bidding 
 me good-night, and telling Jose to follow him, M. de Beaus- 
 set disappeared. 
 
 I slept that night in the tent, near Morgotte, but sur- 
 rounded hy several others, women and children. Early in the 
 morning Morgotte roused me^ for towards morning I slept 
 heavily. 
 
 " I am to go with you to the convent," she said. " M. de 
 Beausset fears to lose sight of you. He told me this, and 
 gave me the order as if I had been a dog !" 
 
 There was a singular fierceness in her speech and looks, 
 and her eyes flashed with an expression that made me 
 shrink from her. 
 '' ' " Yet he seems gentle and kind," I said. " But it is me 
 that you will oblige most. I already owe you my thanks, 
 and will reward you for this service." 
 
 " You would give me money after tearing my heart !" 
 she exclaimed, savagely. " Yes, you will reward me,— you 
 have rewarded me already !'" and sh5 turned from me with 
 a wild laugh. 
 
 I had lost one friend already. Was it possible that this 
 girl loved M. de Beausset, and that she was jealous of me ? 
 I could only surmise^ this. Perhaps M. de Beausset had 
 wronged her ; he was rich and powerful, and by such the 
 agonies of the poor are accounted small matters. Well, I had 
 learned this truth, and Morgotte had, at least, nothing to 
 fear from me. 
 
 I sought Jose and offered to pay him for the services I 
 had received from him and his people, but he refused to take 
 anything. 
 
 " We shall loose nothing by entertaining you," he said ; 
 " besides, that was not our bargain." 
 
 After breakfast Morgotte suddenly appeared before me, 
 carrying my carpet-bag. 
 
284 mar&aret; oe^ 
 
 " Are you ready ?" she asked, sullenly. 
 
 I was ready in a few minutes, and I offered to carry my 
 luggage myself. 
 
 " Yes !" she said, " and if we meet M. de Beausset he will 
 say, 'Why does not that Egyptian vagabond wait upon 
 mademoiselle, as she ought to do V " - 
 
 " Oan M. de Beausset speak in that way ?" '' 
 
 " He can look it," said the girl, fiercely. 
 
 We walked, on a few paces, and we were close upon the 
 city. 
 
 " Morgotte," I said, " you are a woman, and may be true 
 to yourself. Stand up for the honor of your sex, and shun 
 men like this M. de Beausset. Why should you thus care, 
 about him?" 
 
 " Have I not eyes and ears 1 Can I not see, and feel, and 
 think Hke you ?" said Morgotte. " Why should you care 
 about him ?" 
 
 " I do not, except as a stranger who seems inclined to 
 help me." 
 
 " It is false !" 
 
 " What am I to say to you, Morgotte ! Do you think I 
 am silly, or mad enough to have fallen in love with this 
 man?" 
 
 " It would not be of much use for you," said Morgotte, 
 "for M. de Beausset is Engaged to marry. I know that he 
 does not love her he is about to wed. I would not have 
 him love any one." 
 
 " Not yourself, surely, Morgotte ?" 
 
 " And why not ? Why not me as well as you, or any one 
 else ?" 
 
 " I fear M. de Beausset is a villain." 
 
 " How dare you say that, or think it — you that know 
 nothing of him ? He is the very soul of honor. If he 
 said to me this moment, ' Morgotte, I love you !' I would 
 follow him to the end of the'earth ; but he never did say 
 it — ^he never will. He laughs with me, and at me— he des- 
 pises me too much !" 
 
 I knew not what to say to this girl, so abandoned to a 
 hopeless attachment. We had entered the city, and were 
 traversing the streets. In one of them, Morgotte stopped 
 
PREJUDICE AT HOME. 285 
 
 before a door set in a dead wall. She rang a bell, and pres- 
 ently the wicket was opened by the portress in a nun's babit. 
 When I told her my name and errand, — (I ■ had given the 
 name of Margaret Payne to M. de Beausset), — she gave me 
 admitanoe. Morgotte had vanished before I could again 
 speak to her. 
 
 I was led through a small court-yard into the house, and 
 then through a long corridor, till I was finally ushered into 
 a room, scantly furnished with a table and a few chairs. — 
 Upon a small stand stood an ivory crucifix, and over the 
 mantlepiece was a painting repsesenting some saint. This 
 was all the room contained, except a green curtain or screen 
 that covered one entire end of it. It was from behind this 
 that the superior, mother Magdalene, at length made her ap- 
 pearance. 
 
 Her figure was tall and stately, and she did not seem to 
 be above forty-five years of age. I was first struck by the 
 extreme placidity of her countenance. No emotion seemed 
 ever to have ruflBed its calm surface, and her clear, pale 
 complexion, and large blue eyes, were set off becomingly by 
 the flowing dress of black serge, with its ample sleeves, and 
 by the long white veil and scapulary. 
 
 " You are welcome, my daughter," she said, kindly taking 
 my hand. " Sit down beside me. M. de Beausset has been 
 telling me about you, and I have promised him that I will 
 do what I can to help you. You are young to have met 
 with so much trouble , in the world ; but, alas 1 the world 
 abounds with trouble. Here, at least, you will find peace 
 for a season." 
 
 Her kind manner and gentle voice, — above all, the quiet 
 pity of those passionless eyes, — seemed to stir up from their 
 depths all the old griefs of my life. I took her hands and 
 kissed them, and wept passionately. 
 
 " What is to be done with this child ?" she said. " Alas ! 
 you have wanted discipline, and have yet to learn that these 
 strong emotions are sinful. Compose yourself, and cast these 
 troubles upon Christ, who is able and wilKng to bear them 
 for you." 
 
 " Alas ! alas !" I exclaimed, " I have been amongst them 
 that. have taken all trust in Christ from me !" 
 
286 MARfiARBT ; OH, 
 
 "All! sad ■woA!" said mother Magdalene. f"Do you 
 not know that Christ is not of the world ? If you would 
 seek him, you must come out of it. But have courage ; 
 calm yourself, and we'll see what can be done. Do not give 
 way to these passionate feelings. You are not in the world 
 now, but amongst those who are vowed to God, and who 
 keep down the evil of their natures by mortification. I 
 trust that these examples will be for your good." 
 
 I subdued my emotion by a strong effort. I eould not 
 help thinking, as mother Magdalene rose and rang a bell, 
 that if mortification was a good specific for keeping down 
 the evil that is within us, I had been pretty well tried al- 
 ready. A very pleasant-faced nun, about thirty years of 
 age, entered. 
 
 "Dame Marie Morine," said mother Magdalene, "for the 
 present you shall take charge of this child. You will in- 
 troduce her to the others, and let her understand the regula- 
 tions pf the house. In the evening I must have a longer 
 conference with her." 
 
 I accompanied dame Marie Morine, who took me up into 
 the dormitory. SJie shtiwed me into a cell-like sleeping-room, 
 in which my carpet-bag was already placed, and told me I 
 might consider it as my own. She was very lively, good-na- 
 tured, and chatty, and learning that I had never been in a 
 ■convent before, seemed to take a pleasure in leading me 
 over the place and describing what must be so new to me. 
 These nuns did not belong to a strict order, and the mortifi- 
 cation (after that of giving up the world) was chiefly volunta- 
 ry. In the large, cheerful school-room, to which I was shortly 
 ushered, I found assembled about twenty pupils, with about 
 as many nuns and a very jovial-looking old priest. Dame 
 Marie Morine introduced me generally to the whole. 
 
 " You are welcome, my daughter," said the priest, advanc- 
 ing and extending his hand. " Here Is a stubborn little rebel, 
 who says she shall never be able to learn your hard English. 
 I shall turn her over to you, — see what you can make of 
 her." 
 
 He went out, after pushing towards me a fair-haired little 
 girl, who laughed very merrily, and told me in French that 
 I should not be able to make anything of her. 
 
PREJUDICE AT HOME. 287 
 
 " Our English teacher left us some time ago," said dame 
 Marie Morine. " We are negooiating for another, and in the 
 meantime, ladies, mother Magdalene desires that none of 
 you will address Mademoiselle Margaret except in English." 
 There was much elevating of eye-brows and shrugging of 
 shoulders at this intimation. Seeing hdw I might best make 
 myself useful, I took up one of the English books and be- 
 gan catechizing the scholar more particularly recommended 
 to my charge. Dame Marie Morine formed a regular class 
 for me, and I continued thus employed during some time. 
 
 In the evening, when I again saw mother Magdalene, she 
 did not press me on the subject of my personal history, when 
 I told her that. the past was as yet too painful for me to speak 
 about. She made herself acquainted with my acquirements, 
 and, above all, with my disquiet of mind ; with the doubts, 
 and distresses, and perplexities that were leading me away 
 from God, instead of drawing me nigh to His presence. 
 
 And mother Magdalene undertook the task of leading me 
 back of God. She had already made her own way to my 
 heart, and I yielded myself implicitly into her hands. I 
 cared nothing for mere differences of creed : where I met 
 with the kindness enjoined by Christ, and I had met it here. 
 ■I could well believe that Christianity most abounded ; and 
 it was easy work to make anything of me when the old 
 stumbling-blocks of indifference, and cruelty, and injustice 
 were moved out of my path. Ah ! Protestanism was venal 
 and cold, — a religion without a soul, as mother Magdalene 
 said. What interest could these people have, except a com- 
 mendable one, in seeking to draw me to their way of think- 
 ing ? Why were they not indifferent, like my own country- 
 people ? Why did they not leave me to perish, soul and 
 body, in the streets ? 
 
 I had no strong prejudices to combat. My grand-father 
 had called the Reformation glorious, by which the Church 
 of Rome had been overthrown in England ; but he had 
 never before me entered upon the theme of its errors. I 
 was guided by my individual experience of the working of 
 the two systems ; and I gave up my whole soul to the 
 Church of Rome, and once more believed that there was a 
 Saviour and a God. 
 
288 MARGTARET ; OB, 
 
 Its institutions, so far as conventual life went, seemed to 
 me replete with the spirit of Christianity. I had seew 
 enough of the world to know that such a refuge as monas- 
 tic life only affords, must often be a priceless boon to many, 
 who, like myself, either inherit the _ world's contempt, oi 
 shrink from its hard usage, or weary of its heartlessness , 
 and I felt that I might eventually be glad to turn to such » 
 refuge. Battle with the world I first would, bravely ; but i 
 should soon have none to struggle for, and I had a lang, sol 
 itary life before me, and it seemed a consolation to me t« 
 know that I might return there to die peacefully. 
 
 Ah, Mary ! •" blessed amongst women," as the angel called 
 thee, how my whole heart turned to thee when, in the first 
 enthusiasm of my new faith, I was taught to supplicate thee 
 as a mother ! To me, who had never known a human 
 mother, this idea of a divine one had a peculiar charm. I 
 had many sorrows that I could not reveal to the world, and 
 here was an outlet for all the pent-up grief of my soul. — 
 The encouragement of enthusiasm is peculiar to the Church 
 of Home, and in this one respect I had plenty to work upon : 
 I began to wonder at the dearth of my past spiritual life. 
 
 I bad been here nearly two months, and had written to 
 mother Meulen, whom I could not yet repay, and had heard 
 in reply that Lisette and Jaques were married and very hap- 
 py. No news of my grand-father, none of Aunt Betsy, and 
 none of Uncle Stephen or George — no hope of any. What 
 a void in my life ! One of the nuns seemed to have penchant 
 for punishing herself. She showed me the horsehair she 
 wore next her sMn ; the cord that had nearly eaten in- 
 to her flesh ; and I knew that she was in the habit of fre- 
 quently scourging herself. This mode of subduing the spirit 
 puzzled me exceedingly ; all the more because I f6lt so sure 
 it would do me no good. Sister Clare recommended it to 
 me as a cure for my earthly regrets, and I made her a reply 
 that subjected me to a severe lecture from mother Magda- 
 lene, and to a penance from the priest. 
 
 It was by very slow degrees that the attempt was made 
 to bring me to spiritual obedience. I acknowledged my 
 stubbornness of heart, at the same time that I willingly un- 
 dertook any task that was enjoined ; and I was assured that 
 
rREJUDICK AT HOMH 289 
 
 ia a short time I should become setasible of an inward 
 change, that would be gratifying to myself as well as oth- 
 ers. All this time I was longing for some ouHoard change. 
 My great object being to earn money sufficient to caiTy nie 
 to Australia, I began anxiously to consider the probability 
 of receiving any remuneratioQ for my services in this place, 
 — a question I could scarcely ask. I had a horror of any 
 appearance of any ingratitude ; but at the same time I felt 
 sure, that if there was any design to keep me altogether in 
 that place m a state of bodily and spiritual dependence, I 
 .?hould rebel, 
 
 I was saved from anything so repugnant to my own feel-, 
 ipgs by a missive that aa-rived from Paris. I was called into 
 mother Magdalene's room one morning, and informed that 
 Mademoiselle de Lammenais, the betrothed bride of M. de 
 ]Beausset, wished to engage me in the capacity of com- 
 panion, 
 
 " Her grand-mother," said the superior, " is a most pious 
 woman ; and you will not be without good example, though 
 surrounded by many temptations, which you qan only escape 
 by frequent communications with your spiritual adviser. 
 The Comtesse de Lammenais has thoughtfully requested 
 tha,t, as you are so young, you might not be sent to Paris 
 alone. Father Dessalle is to proceed there at the end of the 
 week, .and you can go under his protection. In the mean- 
 time we shall scarcely be able to prepare you. Send dame 
 Marie Morine to me." 
 
 I had hitherto worn the single dress in which I had ar- 
 rived, and now I was assisted by the nuns in making up 
 several new ones. , There was always a supply of ready- 
 made linen in the convent, as it formed a part of the work, 
 for which the nuns periodically obtained a ready sale. I 
 was bountifully supplied from this store ; and being remu- 
 nerated so liberally, so far beyond what I had any right to 
 expect, I felt pained, and ashamed at having thought un- 
 worthily of those who labored so earnestly for my temporal 
 as well as spiritual advantage. 
 
 It was during the Christmas vacation that these prepara- 
 tions were made for sending me to Paris. I haVe before 
 said that these nuns were not qf a strict order ; and the 
 
290 MARGARET ; OR, 
 
 droumstance of the convent bein^ a school, also allowed 
 them a large intercourse with the world. I had never ob- 
 served anything like discontent amongst the professed nunsj 
 but there was one young novitiate who had attracted my 
 observation by her melancholy air and frequent deep sighs ; 
 and I wondered if, like me, she had suffered in the world, 
 without, like me, feeling the power and resolution to ven- 
 ture again into the midst of its turmoil. 
 
 The day before my departure I was passing through the 
 corridor, when this young girl stopped me in an agitated 
 manner. She asked me to accompany her into the garden 
 for a moment ; and I went. 
 
 "0 my God !" she said, looking anxiously round, "you 
 are going to Paris, and you ai-e leaving me here to die ! 
 My heart is breaking, Mademoiselle Marguerite 1" 
 
 " What trouble have you that yon cannot confide to 
 mother Magdalene, who is so gentle and compassionate ?" I 
 said. 
 
 " She compassionate ! she is like them all — cruel and in- 
 exorable ! They are driving me mad ! I have wept and 
 entreated — I have knelt and prayed ; they know that I have 
 no vocation, yet they insist upon making me a nun. I will 
 die first ! There is nb help for me in this place, unless you 
 will help me. O Marguerite ! you have been a Protestant, 
 if you are not one now : cannot you show me a little 
 mercy ?" 
 
 Protestants turning to Catholics for mercy, and Catholics 
 to Protestants — this was strange work ! 
 
 " But they will not, surely, force you to be a nun ! — they 
 cannot." 
 
 " Hush ! we shall be overheard and ruined. my God ! 
 do you pity me ?" 
 
 " I do from my soul, C16mence : show me how I can help 
 you." 
 
 " And you would dare to help me ?" 
 
 " Yes ; I would dare anything, if I thought you were be- 
 ing wronged." 
 
 " Is it not cruel wrong to shut me up here for life against 
 my will?" 
 
 " That must be your parents' fault." 
 
PREJUDICE AT HOME. 291 
 
 ITo : I have no parents — none that I ever knew. T have 
 been told that I am illegitimaite : they give me this intelli- 
 gence, thinking- that it will reconcile me to this doom to 
 wbich they would condemn me. I understand that my 
 parents are living and in the world, and that I must not dis- 
 grace them. If they can walk abroad with this sin upon 
 tliein, why am I to be punished so severely ? If they have 
 any hearts, I will yet wring them. I can die by some 
 means : you see, if I chose I could dash my brains out this 
 minute against yonder stone wall. It's all nonsense being 
 compelled to bear a long life of agony : no one need do 
 that." 
 
 " Dear Clemence, don't talk so ; this is terrible ! You 
 asked if I would help you." 
 
 " Yes, you might carry me a letter to Paris." 
 
 "I will." 
 
 " Ah, you are my good angel ! But oh ! you must be 
 wary ! If we are discovered ! I have the letter written : 
 I will place it under your pillow the last thing to-night. — 
 Do you understand ?" 
 
 "Perfectly." 
 
 " It is ready, addressed to M. Picarde, banker Chauss^e 
 d'Antin, Paris. This gentleman has always paid my board 
 here, and sometimes he has come down to see me. I want 
 to let him understand the consequences of compelling me to 
 profess." 
 
 "And you are not allowed to write to him?" 
 
 " Oh no ! and I am not to see him again. They tell me 
 that he has now done with me, and that I must wean my 
 thoughts from the world — the world that I have never seen, 
 that I long to enter !" 
 
 " And have you lived here all your life, C16mence ?" 
 
 " Ever since I can remember," she said, sadly. 
 
 This was worse than the perfect indiflference of Colonel 
 Leigh. How could they be called Christians who brought 
 children into the world to neglect or oppress them thus ? 
 
 " And this letter, what am I to do with it ?" 
 
 " Put it in the Paris post whenever you have an oppor- 
 tunity of doing so free of observation. You must not be 
 found out as having helped me, for the world. Do you 
 
292 maboardt; ob, 
 
 know what vengeance these people can take if they are 
 thwarted ? Do not take it to the post for a whole month at 
 least. Then you will not be suspected." 
 
 " And when are you to be pnofessed ?" 
 
 " Never ! They say I shall profess at Midsummer. They 
 shall see !" 
 
 There was a bold resoluteness about this young creature, 
 whose violent grief was literally wearing her to a shadow. 
 I was instantly revolted by this injustice, this cruelty, praa- 
 ticed by those to whom I had given credit for so much hu- 
 manity. O Saviour ! that requirest an undivided place in 
 the hearts of thy people, how was I tormented by doubt, 
 and perplexities, while as yet I only sought to understand 
 Christianity in the actions of men ! 
 
 I sewed Cl^mence's letter into my stays, and my heart 
 was indignantly throbbing against it when mother Magda- 
 lene gave me .her parting advice, on the night befor I set 
 out for Paris. How kind she was ! How affectionately 
 she admonished me, as a mother might do ! After all, I 
 had to take into consideration the prejudices of her educa- 
 tion. She, also, had never been in the world ; and she, 
 doubtless, felt justified in even enforcing a way of life that 
 had brought peace to herself. 
 
 I took a friendly leave of all the nuns and departed 
 with father Dessalle in the diligence. We traveled all day 
 and night, and arrived in Paris in the morning. The priest 
 hired a vehicle that drove us to the hdtel de Lammenais, in 
 the suburb St. Germain. 
 
 We were ushered into a splendid apartment on the first 
 floor, and a very lean and withered, but very drfesy woman 
 whom I instantly suspected to be highly rouged, even at 
 that early hour, came to us. 
 
 " Ah, Madame Maraude ! looking well as ever, I see," 
 said the priest. (Why did he not rather reprove her for 
 this unseemly folly at her time of life ?) " How is the com- 
 tesse, and the little Eraillie ?" 
 
 " Emillie is charmingly well, but not up yet. Ah, father 
 Dessalle, it's well for the rich and gay, that can keep late 
 hours for their own pleasure : as for me, what with sitting 
 up half the night with Madame la Oomtesse, who you know 
 
FBEJtJDICS AT HOME. 293 
 
 is near dying at least once in twenty-four hours, and attend- 
 ing to other matters in the day, I'm nearly worn out. I'm 
 sure I don't know what is to become of me when I am 
 grown old." 
 
 " If that time ,should ever arrive," said the priest, bowing 
 politely. "I suppose you are prepared to receive this 
 young lady, who was co^isigned to my charge by mother 
 Magdalene. You will see to her proper accommodation 
 and mention her arrival to Mademoiselle Emillie." 
 , " O yes, I expected her," said the waiting-woman. " She 
 is English, I see : I can speak a little English, and I intend 
 to improve myself. But you — you speak French well ?" 
 
 " Like a French-woman," said the priest, answering for 
 me. 
 
 " Ma foi ! we shall get on rarely. WUl you take coffee, 
 father Dessalle ?" 
 
 " Mademoiselle Marguerite and I will breakfast together, 
 if you please. Afterwards I have business with the 
 comtesse." 
 
 Father Dessalle, who had been very taciturn during the 
 journey, was now cheerful and talkative. He drew my atten- 
 tion to one of the large windows, commanding a view of the 
 beautiful locality in which the hfitel was situated. Then he 
 pointed out several fine paintings on the walls of the room ; 
 tlien we sat down to coffee, served in Sevres china- with an 
 aooompaniraent of silver plate. 
 
 Father Dessalle gave a friendly greeting to the little pow- 
 dered-headed footman who waited. 
 
 " You are still troubled with your old complaint, I see, 
 Baptiste," (the latter limped a little) : " how do you manage 
 it?" 
 
 " Sacristie ! it's all the fault of M. I'Abbd EouUett," said Bap- 
 tiste. " He took for me to Rome a nostrum to be blessed 
 by Ills Holiness ; and I once knew the same remedy to per- 
 form a perfect cure in a few minutes. But M. I'Abbe for- 
 gets me." 
 
 " We must stir up his memory," said father Dessalle. 
 " Let me see ; I shall be writing to him soon, and I'll men- 
 tion it." 
 
 Baptiste was profuse in his thanks. 
 
294 MARGARET ; OB, 
 
 What folly was this 3 It puzzled me. 
 I Father Dessalle left the room, saying he should have the 
 pleasure of seeing me frequently. Indeed I afterwards learn- 
 ed that he was the Comtesse de Lammenais' confessor. I 
 don't know what it was that made me fe^l more restleis, 
 and unsettled, and unhappy, in that splendid mansion than 
 I had been in the plain, quiet convent. Perhaps it was the 
 thought— and it would come — of how differently pay pauper 
 aunt and my convict grand-father were lodged and attend- 
 ed. I could not help feeling in my heart that I should 
 have been much happier if I had been allowed an opportu- 
 nity of earning what I wanted in a humbler sphere, away 
 from this grandeur and gaiety, which, only threatened to 
 oppress me. Tbe splendid carpets, and gilded ceilings, the 
 pictures and mirrors, and statuary, and articles of virtu, 
 made my eyes and heart ache. It was necessary to be born 
 to this magnificence and glitter, in order to sit down to its 
 enjoyment and close one's senses to the squalor and wretch- 
 edness lying outside, covered by the same sky, but in no 
 other respect seeming to be a production of the same earth. 
 To be here, too-, perhaps, subject to the whims and humors 
 of a capricious mistress, was not to be independent as I wish- 
 ed to be. What a hard matter it was to put to proper use the 
 willing labor of either head or hand ! 
 
 I stood in the midst of this splendor, gazing in the fire 
 and forgetting it. I thought of my grand-father, yet upon 
 the sea — ^alone there with his God ! I thought of many 
 things that tended to dissatisfy me with the present. Then 
 I thought of poor Clemence, and I exclaimed aloud and in- 
 voluntarily, — " Thank God that I am at least free !" 
 
 " Free !" said a voice beside me. " I did not come here 
 to play the eavesdropper, and I give you welcome to Paris, 
 Mademoiselle Payne," said M. de Beausset : " but what a 
 wild dream this of yours is ! What right have you to feel 
 yourself free where all else are slaves — slaves to fashions and 
 customs, to prejudices and superstitions ; slaves to their own 
 follies and passions ? What do you call freedom ?" 
 
 " The right of being such a voluntary slave as you havo 
 described. The right of forging my own fetters." 
 
 " And you think you possess this freedom J" 
 
PREJUDICE AT HOME. 295 
 
 " By fits and starts I do ; though I have more reason to 
 feel myself a slave, indeed, when 1 look round me here and 
 remember what I am." 
 
 *' You pain me," said M. de Beausset " I have had my 
 own share, it is true, in bringing you here, but it was invol- 
 untary. I spoke against it: I would gladly have kept you 
 in the asylum where I first placed you." 
 
 I thought this was not a very complimentary speech, but 
 I «ould afford to let it pass. 
 
 " I have no right to quarrel with fate as one who is free 
 to choose," I said, " and doubtless my thanks are due to 
 some one for the motive that brought me here. My thanks 
 are still due to^you for introducing me to the kind friends I 
 have left behind me," 
 
 " Don't thank me, pray. Burden me with anything but 
 the gratitude that always comes to nothing !" 
 
 I thought there was an implied reproach in these words. 
 
 " If I am dissatisfied, it is the ' fault of circumstances 
 rather than of my nature " I said. " I think I am capable 
 of feeling truly grateful for the help that has been afforded 
 me, — for the protection I have received." 
 
 " I don't doubt that," said M. de Beausset, moving un- 
 easily from the chair against which lie had been leaning^ 
 "Hang it! how hai-d it ts to make one's self understood -k 
 Don't thank me, even in your heart, till you see the issue 
 of all this — that's all. Some day you may see reason to 
 ourse me for my interference." 
 
 "Sir?" 
 
 He stood for a moment with his hand pressed to his fore- 
 head, as if too abstracted to hear me. I had a full view of 
 his tall, manly figure ; of his noble head, with its clus- 
 tering curls of dark hair; of his side-faee, sharply and 
 delicately cut, as if by t}ie hand of a sculptor. It pained 
 me to see how the broad forehead was contracted, and - the 
 firm mouth compressed. What could it mean ? Was my 
 presence there, which he had said he could have dispensed 
 with, a pain to him ? This was not mending matters for 
 me. 
 
 " If I have been disagreeably forced upon you personally, 
 M. de Beausset," I said, " there is still an easy remedy. I 
 
296 mAr6aret; or, 
 
 have gained my first wish in' Saving been enabled to reach 
 Paris. I have Ho fear of not being able to earn a living iii 
 some way." 
 
 " My God ! I must be misanderstood !" said M. de 
 Beausset, in agitation. " No, by Heaven ! job shall not do 
 this — you mistake me altogotbef. None would have more 
 rejoiced to receive yon, if I could have believed that your 
 
 comidg here was for your own good or The fact is, 
 
 Mademoiselle Payne, you must set me down as an extraor- 
 dinary fellow, whose vagaries are not worth noticing. By 
 and bye, you will discover that the smoothest of all destinies 
 has fairly ennuied me to death. I envy you the necessity' 
 that makes life a struggle to you ; the absence of outward 
 that leaves you in possessipn of inward power." 
 
 " And it is thus that Providence equalizes the destinies 
 of earth 3" 
 
 " Yes. In some way or other we are made to feel our 
 mortality, our impotence, exalt ourselves as we will. If we 
 are not humbled by others, we are humbled by oiir own 
 failures and infirmities, and the oppressor is 6ften more of ek 
 slave than the oppressed. This knowledge should reconcile 
 us to much." 
 
 " If one was a pilosopher : but this knowledge is not uni- 
 versal. For my part, it would not reconcile me to injustice 
 to know that my oppressor possessefd less spiritual freedom 
 than myself. I should then despise myself." 
 
 " We must positively discard philosophy, then ; arid I ani 
 afraid you have too much of that same spiritual freedom to 
 make an orthodox Catholic. What ! have you not resigned 
 yourself, implicitly into the hands of your new teabhefS ? 
 Have you any mental reservations ?" , ■ 
 
 I was annoyed by the light, mocking tone in which he 
 spqltef and he smiled sarcastically, I thought maliciously. 
 
 "M. de Beausset," I said, "I have been in the habit of 
 thinking for myself, and I am not likely to believe more 
 than seems good to me." 
 
 " You have much of the stubbornness of heresy about 
 you yetj I see," said M. de Beausset. " In fact it surprise^ 
 irie when 1 heard that you had become a convert to the trua 
 faith. Beware, hoSvever, how yoii bring scandal upon us of 
 
PEBJUDICE 43P HOME. SQIT 
 
 ■thfe hdtel de Lammenais, wlio are famous for our obedience 
 to the Church. You will find nothing to equal us in this 
 respect in Paris.'' 
 
 It was impossible to believe' him serious in what he said, 
 in spite of his gravity. I turned and looked in the fire 
 again. 
 
 " Our common mistress is very tyrannical, madeinoiselle," 
 continued M. de Beausset. "She knows we are both wait- 
 ing, and you see how she' trifles with our impatience. It is 
 twelve o'clock by N6tre Dame. Ah, Annette, what news ?" 
 
 " My young lady wishes' to see you both : you, monsieur, 
 and raademoiseljfe," said the pretty young grisette who had 
 entered. " Please to walk this way." 
 
 We followed her to a richly-furnished dressirig-room, in- 
 which we found Mademoiselle Etnillie de Lammenais seated 
 before a large cheval glass, her long fairjiair floating over 
 her neck and shoulders. She was petit and pretty, with 
 small features, blue eyes, and a brilliant complexion. 
 
 " Come here and let me look at you," she said, without 
 turning her head. "Both together, yoli know — you two 
 who met so romantically ! Ah, she is handsome ; is she 
 not, Victor ? I like the narne, too — Marguerite. Now I 
 think I shall take you into great favor — both of you, though 
 you scarcely deserve it, Victor." . _ 
 
 " You were always capricious and cruel to myself,' said 
 M. de Beausset. " You have received my bouquet ? I hope 
 it has pleased you." 
 
 ."Ah,. it is superb !" sa,id Mademoiselle Lammenais, glanc- 
 ing carelessly at a group of exotic flowers lying- on the 
 dressing-table. "How long is it your pleasure to weary me 
 with compliments this- morning ?" 
 
 "Not longer than you wish, certainly," said M. de Beaus- 
 set. " Perhaps I had better give you a respite, Emillie," 
 
 " Ah, charinente ! but will you ? Marguerite, I ha-re a 
 caprice that you shouldtbraid rny hair this morning. Seej 
 here is a model for you. I am told that you can do alrhost 
 anything." 
 
 " I fear that reputation will cause you disappointment," I 
 said, "but I will try my best." I glanced at the print repre-' 
 Benting a head of hair elaborately .plaited behiiidj and in 
 
298 MARGARET *, OB, 
 
 front laid in smooth bands. , I commenced operations, and 
 M. de Beausset stood with folded arms gazing at us both. 
 
 " Ah, what fairy fingers !" exclaimed mademoiselle Lam- 
 menais, surveying me in the glass. " Allow me to look at 
 your hands. Marguerite." . 
 
 I held them out in some confusion. 
 
 " Beautiful ! are they not, Victor ? So white and taper- 
 ing, so delicately rosy and soft !" 
 
 " They are marvellously like your own, Emillie." 
 
 " I can set that compliment down for nothing, else~I 
 should quarrel with you. What does your English play say, 
 Marguerite ? ' Behold the foil that sets this brightness off!' 
 Monsieur's speech reminded me of that." 
 
 I had read the play of " The Inconstant," and this quota- 
 tion made me blush. 
 
 " I am unfortunate to-day," said M. de Beausset. " I must 
 positively go and ride off my chagrin. Where shall I find 
 you to-night, Emillie ?" 
 
 " At madame la Marquise de Pauvenay's, if you like to 
 come. Ah, Marguerite ! you are progressing divinely ! M, 
 de Beausset, I must thank you for giving me such a trea- 
 sure." She held to him her small hand as she spoke. 
 
 "I am averse to receiving thanks till I feel assured that I 
 have conferred a benefit," said M. de Beausset, moving off. 
 
 '^h, see ! Now the monster is turning upon you, Mar- 
 guerite ! Never mind, I shall like you all the better. Bon 
 jour, monsieur." 
 
 He returned the salute and left us. 
 
 " What horrid creatures the men are !" said mademoiselle 
 de Lammenais ; " how I hate their compliments, that rarely 
 mean anything but impertinence ! Don't you. Marguerite ?" 
 
 I confessed Jhat I had had no experience this way. 
 
 " No, really ? and you so handsome ! What misfortune ! 
 You have, then, all this dreadfulness to come ! Do you 
 know I am in hopes that M. de Bjausset admires you. It 
 would be so tiresome to have a husband entirely devoted to 
 one's self. 
 
 " You cannot mean this ?" I said, in the simplicity of my 
 surprise. 
 
 "Ah, mon Dieu! yes. But you are English, and tha 
 
rUHJCDICB AT HOME. 299 
 
 English rejoice ia being ennuied. What a cold country, not 
 to afford you a lover before this time ! How old are you !" 
 
 " I was seventeen last month." 
 
 " And I am eighteen. Holy Mother ! I have been pes- 
 tered to death with adorers for the last two years. Now I 
 begin to feel weary, and submit myself to a marriage de 
 convenance with M. de Beausset. You must see that we 
 are well matched." 
 
 In what respect? I thought. In mutual indifference ? I 
 should have considered M. de Beausset capable of profoun- 
 der feeling. Was he mercenary ? Had ennui driven him 
 to this union without love that promised no happiness ? 
 How I pitied them both while I condemned them 1 
 
 " Ah, I like myself to-day!" exclaimed mademoiselle de 
 Lammenais, surveying herself in the glass. " You shall al- 
 ways dress my hair — will you 1 You are very good. You 
 shall accompany me to-night to madame la Marquise de 
 Pauvenay's. Just now religion is the fashion, and there is a 
 furor for making converts. You are »iy convert, remember. 
 Ah I shall enjoy your confusion at the compliments you 
 will receive, for you are really very beautiful. Don't jou 
 know that ? Why, you are positively blushing 1 Ileigho ! 
 I must be very religious to-day, or I shall begin to envy 
 you." _ 
 
 I was siummoned from Mademoiselle de Lammenai's dress- 
 ing-room to attend her grand-mother, the oomtesse. Mad- 
 ame Maraude led the way to a small boudoir on the same 
 floor, in which I found the old lady in company with father 
 Dessalle. She was dressed in a bygone fashion, appeared to 
 be very old and wrinkled, very nervous, and fidgetty too. — 
 She was reclined upon a couch, propped up with pillows, 
 and was surrounded with crucifixes, rosaries, and manuals of 
 devotion. In her hands she held a piece of embroidery. — 
 For some minutes I wondered who she reminded me of, till at 
 length I felt sure that she resembled lady Leigh. 
 
 " Sit down, child," she said, " here beside me. My eyes 
 are growing dim, but I must yet see to do good. Ah, 
 pauvre innocent ! so they used you ill in your own country ? 
 How could you expect different from heretics 1 What a 
 UeBfiing to w received into the fold of the true church I 
 
300 MAKCiARET; OR, 
 
 Mother- Madeleine consigns you especially to my charge ; 
 and I shall desire to see you frequently, though you will 
 attend upon my grand-daughter. You, so young in the 
 faith, will need constant instruction and admonition. Fath- 
 er Dessalle, too, will pay you constant attention. God has 
 given you to us, and we shall take care of you. Come clo- 
 ser to me, I want to see you." 
 
 My heart warmed towards this old lady, who addressed 
 me as a daughter, who did not shrink from me as lady 
 Leigh had done. I moved nearer to her, and she took my 
 feand. 
 
 " Ah, pretty 1" she said ; " very pretty^ Don't you think 
 me very old and ugly ? Yet I, too, was considered very 
 handsome once. How necessary it is that we should fix our 
 thoughts upon eternal things !" 
 
 " None can teach her that truth better than yourself, 
 comtesse," said father Dessalle ; " and for the present I shall 
 leave her with you. Have you any commands for me ?" 
 
 " I wish you would call again to-night, just to see how I am,'' 
 said the comtesse. "And you really think I am not looking 
 worse ?" ■ , 
 
 "Decidedly," said father Dessalle. " You are a little ner- 
 vous, that is all. I shall call in the evening, and hope to 
 find -you better." ^ 
 
 " Ah, what a dear man he is !" said the comtesse, after 
 he was gone. " The priests are the only truly polite men, 
 after all. Father Dessalle never loses the recoUec'tyjn of 
 what I was. My dear, I am English like you; I was a 
 belle at the court of George the Third. When I married 
 the Comte de Lamrnenais, and came to Paris in 1815, 1 was 
 considered the finest woman at the court of Louis, though 
 I had then passed my bloom. Isn't that true, Maraude ?" 
 , " Quite true madaine," said Maraude. " Ah, those were 
 days ! There were the Duo de Lancy and Comte Lamrnenais 
 dying, for you ; and poor Monsieur de St. Moray ! Ah, mad- 
 ame !r you were very cruel 1 I would not have yoiir sins 
 that way to answer for." 
 
 The comtesse simpered ; her sins of that description did 
 ■ not seem to lie heavily upon her conscience. 
 
 ^' Ah, we lost everyihirig when the Bourbons began to 
 
PEEJUDICE AT HOME. SOl 
 
 decline !" said the comt&sS, as if she mentally charged the 
 new dynasty with robbing her. of her youth. " The bour- 
 geois king has no attractioii at Lis court for the old nobility 
 of France. They would rob us of our religion, too, in thes6 
 days. Holy .Mother ! they are growing more philosophical 
 and sceptical than in the times of' Voltaire 1 My poor child, 
 I must take great care of you, for yoii don't understand by 
 what dangers you are bfeset. I think you have a very prst- 
 ty hand ; let me see. I am a connoisseur in hancfe. My 
 family are remarkable for beautiful hands; and at the court 
 of G-ecJrge the Third, myself and my sister, lady Leigh, were 
 pronounced to have the most perfect hands in England. — 
 Do look, Maraude ! I declare I could fancy these had once 
 been my own !" 
 
 I turned pale and cold whilst they were examining my 
 hands. Miserable inheritance ! Perhaps this was the reason 
 why these hands had never done me any good service ! If 
 I had had any right to claim such a relationship, Emillie de 
 Laihmeiiais would then have been my cousin ! 
 
 " Well, I declare," Said Maraude, -'' they are' exactly like 
 what yours were ! exactly like Mademoiselle 'Emillie's. How 
 singular 1" 
 
 " Be proud of your hands," said the comtesse ; " they 
 are a mark of gentle birth. But, alas ! I am wandering in- 
 to vanities ! What matters hands, or anything else that 
 belongs to mortality ? Look at mine : you may still see 
 ;what they have been. The hands are, unfortunately, the 
 first to fade. Maraude, give me that rosary." 
 
 Maraude handed her a long string of beads, with a cik)ss 
 -attached. The lips and fingers of the comtesse moved rap- 
 idly in concert, as for the space of several minutes she occu- 
 pied herself with this bauble. Maraude bowed her head 
 very reverently during the silence ; and I sat looking, I fear, 
 very foolish. 
 
 "You see," said the comtesse, at length, handing the ro- 
 sary to Maraude, " how hard it is tb be a Christian. I have 
 suffered my thoughts to wander away to vanities, and I am 
 compelled to perform penance. Six Paternosters and six 
 Ave Maries. It is heavy work, but we must keep right be- 
 fore G^d. Ah 1 1 feel another tWinge, Maraude. I have 
 
302 MAJtOAIl£T; OB, 
 
 been neglecting this wort for our blessed Lady of Cleury 1 
 but, Holy Virgin ! I mean to finisb it directly. Mademoi- 
 selle Payne, yoii shall read to me from the lives of the 
 saints ; no better reading to divert our thoughts from the 
 world. What examples to us !" 
 
 From the glimpse she had given me of her past life, I 
 thought the comtesse was beginning late with good exam- 
 ples. I read to her from the lives of the saints, and listen- 
 ed to her commentaries during an hour and a half. Then 
 she told me to look at her work. 
 
 " Can you embroider in this way ?" she said. " No 1 
 Then I must teach you. It is a meritorious work. Ah ! 
 what a blessing it is to be allowed so to cover our sins ! 
 This is a robe for our Lady of Cleury. I intend to enrich 
 it with several of the gems I used to wear. Alas ! I have 
 no further use for them myself Is your arm as beautiful as 
 your hand ? I had splendid arms, and the Duo de Lancy 
 used to say he envied the diamonds that sparkled on them. 
 Ah ! you should have seen what a fine gentleman he was ! 
 But I am wandering again : give me the rosary." 
 
 In the absence of Maraude, I had the honor of perform- 
 ing this service for her. Her penance this time was very 
 brief, and she desired me to ring the bell. Maraude appear- 
 ed. 
 
 " Tell my grand-daughter it is time I saw her," said the 
 comtesse. " I would have her set a good example to our 
 young prosplyte." 
 
 Mademoiselle Lammenais presently entered, and curtsied 
 very demurely. 
 
 " Come hither, child," said the comtesse. " I don't know 
 what heavier penance I need than having this charge upon 
 me of the young and thoughtless. Have you attended to 
 the duties enjoined by your confessor, Emillie ?" 
 
 " I have repeated a dozen Aves Maries since breakfast," 
 said Emillie, yawning. 
 
 "That's right I But I fear you don't attend to the more 
 necessary work, Emillie. You don't admonish M. de Beaus- 
 set as you ought to do." 
 
 " What am / to do with him ? He is the nephew of a 
 cardinal, and you surely don't suspect him of heresy ? Don't 
 
PEEJtTDICB AT HOME. 303 
 
 weary nie t6o much about him, grand-mamma, or I shall 
 never endure him for a husband. You know he is not a 
 Due de Lancy — not even a Chevalier de Moray." 
 
 "Ah, you saucy child !" said the comtesse. "Sit down, 
 and let me talk to you, for I see you are going all wrong. 
 No wonder that you should be led astray in these degenerate 
 days ! There is no mentioning M. de Beausset and the Duo 
 de Lancy in the same breath, it is true. The latter was so 
 noble, so chivalrous,''so religious ! Holy Mother ! when I 
 first became a convert, how he labored to keep me right ! 
 I shall never forget when I first put on the dress of a, Sister 
 of Mercy ! He said-he had never seen any one become it 
 so well. It was through him I wore it so often, and you 
 may be sure I did a deal of good. Yes, he labored for my 
 spiritual benefit. You see, he felt great interest in me." 
 
 " Ah, grand-mamma, everybody knows that he loved you, 
 and that despair killed him !" 
 
 " Does the world say that ?" asked the comtesse, her dim 
 eyes kindling. "How could I help it ? I was married, you 
 know. Ah, those were hard times to live consistently ! 
 There was the Chevalier de St. Moray, who shot himself, 
 and they laid that to my charge : it is a censorious world 1" 
 
 " Then there was the Comte de Ligny," said Emillie. 
 
 " The finest man in France, I give you my word 1" said 
 the comtesse. " All the court-ladies were in love with him, 
 married and single ; but he would -devote himself to me. 
 How could I help it ? Ah, I have gone through a great 
 deal of trouble !" 
 
 " I shouldn't make a trouble of it at all," said Emillie. 
 
 " Ah, child, you are talking sinfully !" said the comtesse, 
 relapsing into her devotional mood. " Don't say that I 
 have led you astray. Come, you need a little mortification : 
 you shall bestow some of your jewellery upon this robe for 
 our blessed Lady." 
 
 Emillie glanced at it, I thought, with contempt. 
 
 " Anything for peace," she said, unclasping a diamond 
 bracelet from her wrist. " This should absolve me from 
 many sins, grandma, for it was a favorite." 
 
 " No doubt it will," said the comtesse, receiving the brace- 
 let. " Ah, there's nothing like mortification of the flesh ! 
 
804 t)ARj}Att!E:T;.6R 
 
 I'll tell M. I'Abbe Eoullet that you must oe remembered in 
 the prayers of the community. Now I think you may go 
 forth safely ; but be upon your guard, the world is full of 
 snares." 
 
 Emillie laughed lightly. 
 
 " I leave you in good company," she said, turning to me ; 
 " at dinner-time I shall see you again, and then we can ar- 
 range about the evening. Addio /" ^ And she went out 
 with a bound, as if rejoicing in the release. 
 
 I passed the remainder of the day until dinner-time with 
 the comtesse, whose alternate fits of vanity and devotion 
 would have amused me, if I had been less interested in the, 
 faith she professed. I began to feel that my new creed was 
 a miserable failure. Afteral!, what did it matter? I was 
 only left where I was, except that I had made an advance 
 that promised to benefit me temporarily. But how desolate 
 I felt in the world as I thought this ! 
 
PREJtTDICi: AT HOME. 306 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 The comtess'e, mademoiselle de Lammenais, and myself 
 dined together. I did not inquix-e too minutely into the 
 cause of my being thus treated as one of the family ; I did 
 " not shrink from the place accorded to me as one unworthy of 
 it. Absorbed by reflections, that made the present important 
 only in connexion with the past, I was incapable of being 
 impressed by much of what was around me. I accommo- 
 dated myself to circumstances. with a sort of mechanical in- 
 difi:erence, caring little for the means by which the object 
 nearest my heart was to be brought about. And , this was 
 the reason why, when in the evening I again attended made- 
 moiselle de Lammenais in her dressing-room, and she insist- 
 ed upon my accompanying her to the Marquise de Pauve- 
 nay's, I attempted to resist, being sensitive on the subject 
 of my individual honor, at the same time that I cared less 
 than nothing for gaiety and show. I did not like the idea 
 of being exhibited as a convert ; feeling, as I did, that noth- 
 ing was more probable than fffy ultimately becoming dis- 
 gusted with the whole system of the Romish church. I was 
 indignant with the fate that seemed to deny me all freedom 
 of action ; that forced upon me conduct unworthy of my- 
 self; that familiarized me with compromises, to which I 
 could only stoop with a proud heart and a stiff neck. I 
 ■went to ma!d%,me la Marquise de Pauvenay's, however ; and, 
 after successfully resisting mademoiselle de Lammenais' at- 
 tempt to adorn me with some of her own ornamental cos- 
 tume, I was pronounced to be perfect in my own simple 
 muslin dress. As we proceeded in the carriage, and made- 
 moiselle de Lammenais spoke of the enthusiasm with which 
 13* 
 
S06 MARGARET; OB 
 
 she anticipated I should be received, I could only hope that 
 she was miscalculating : but I supposed it was the fact, as I 
 had been informed, that religion was just than the fashion ; 
 for I was carressed, and questioned, and made so much of by 
 the brilliant company assembled at the h6tel de Pauvenay, 
 that, with all my equinimity and presence of mind, I did 
 not acquit myself in a manner at all satisfactory to my own 
 notions of "what was right. In a scene so animated and so 
 new to me, however, I saw much that irresistibly took me 
 cut of myself. In this assemblage of the highly-educated, 
 the noble, and the wealthy, I found many of the elements 
 that made up the littleness of the inferior people whom I 
 had enoounteted at Mrs. Brown's. Youth did not impress 
 me with its freshness, nor age with its decorum. There 
 seemed to me to be an abundance of giddiness, and affecta- 
 tion, and jaded sentiment, and hot-house enthusiasm, that 
 was scarcely fitted for every-day use. The two persons who 
 struck me as an exception were M. de Beausset, who stood 
 aloof and spoke little, and seldom apprpached mademoiselle 
 de Laramenais, and our hostess, the Marquise de Pauvenay. 
 The latter a fine-looking woman of about forty, with noble 
 features, a profusion of dark hair, and large black eyes, that 
 seemed to hide a world of sorrow in their troubled depths, 
 interested me so much, that I could not help follow- 
 ing her movements with my eyes. Perfectly courte- 
 ous and attentive to all her guests, there was a re^essness 
 about her, perhaps 'apparent only to myself; and I fancied 
 I discovered the source of her uneasiness. The marquis 
 himself was a handsome, manly-looking personage, of about 
 her own age; and wherever he was, there her eyes wander- 
 ed furtively, or rested for a moment with an agony of ex- 
 pression, that sent a sympathetic thrill through my whole 
 frame. The marquis, on his side, never noticed her, even 
 by a glance. I guessed that there was some estrangement 
 between them ; and that wealth, and rank, £wid splendor, 
 had failed to bring satisfaction to that yearning woman's 
 heart. 
 
 The dhief purposes Tor which this brilliant company had 
 assembled, appeared to be flirtation and the discussion of 
 the prevailing topics of the day. Conversations on litera- 
 
PKEJTJDICK AT HOME. 30Y 
 
 ture, religion, even politics, were going on all round me ; 
 and certainly the French are a people who excel in the 
 ephemeral brilliancy of spoken words. "There was a vast 
 deal of wit, .agreeably veiling some profundity; and the 
 vivacity and earnestness with which even trifles were dis- 
 cussed, imparted a certain importance to them. I could not 
 help being amused, though my thoughts would wander back 
 and onward, and though I was so much absorbed in observ- 
 ing the Marquise de Pauvnay. I was myself particularly 
 seized upon by a devout old lady, the Comtesse de Reuilly, 
 whose style of dress shocked me, exhibiting her withered 
 person in a manner that took away all reverence- for her 
 years. As she admonished me, especially on the subject of 
 relics and pilgrimages, I could not help wondering that re- 
 ligion had not taught her more decorum. I had been chain- 
 ed to her side'for an hour or two, when M. de Beausset con- 
 siderately advanced, and asked if I would walk for a minute 
 into the fresh air. I gladly took his oflfered arm, and he 
 led me out upon the balcony filled with evergreens. It was 
 a still night and the moon was shining brilliantly. 
 
 " What do you think of us by this time," he said, " now 
 that you are become one of us ?" 
 
 " I am not at all sure that I have become one of you, in 
 the sense you mean. I think that you are a people who 
 like to be flattered, and that, therefore, the less I say of you 
 at present the better. I must search further." 
 
 " Into what we are all surface." 
 
 " Into your religion, if you have any. What was a 
 mockery in England seems to be a mummery here. I fear 
 I am a born sceptic." 
 
 " Did you say this to the comtesse de Reuilly just 
 now ?" 
 
 "No ; I heard all and said little. What could I say to a 
 very foolish old woman, who evidently does not herself un- 
 derstand what she is talking about ?" 
 
 " So you reserve for me the honor of being the depository 
 of your worse than heretical notions ?" 
 
 It was a fact, that I should not have spoken so decidedly 
 to any one else. There was no frippery about M. de Beaus- 
 set : it was impossible to meet his &ank look and not trust 
 
sod MAHGARBi; OK, 
 
 him implicitly. Besides, I felt pretty sure that he waS 
 something more than heretical himself. His words, howev- 
 er, annoyed me 'a little, and I attempted to draw my arm 
 from his. He held my hand and detained it. 
 
 "Marguerite," he said — "others name you so, and I have 
 the first right — I have heard you with mingled sensations 
 of pain and pleasure. The pain is uppermost, but I rejoice 
 in being able to honor you as I have wished to do since our 
 first meeting. You will remember I toWyou, that good 
 Christians were rare articles to be met with anywhere. As 
 to Christianity itself, why " 
 
 He paused, jierhaps wanting to hear my opinion of it. 
 
 "It seems, i said, "to be a subtle spirit, that evaporates 
 in mortal hands." 
 
 " It was not meant to be moulded by hands or directed 
 by heads, but to be firmly treasured up by the heart," said 
 M. de Beausset. " We should not so scramble after these 
 shadows of it, these mockeries and mummeries, if we had 
 not an inboro consciousness that there was a substance some- 
 where. I am only a blind leader of the blind ; I do no one 
 thing that I feel to bei right; yet I cannot shut my eyes to 
 the fact, that noble men and women have adorned life and 
 glorified death through this same faith, and that without it 
 altogether we should be infinitely more degraded than we 
 are. As to the examples that meet our eyes in daily life, I, 
 for one, don't feel myself qualified to cast the first stone at 
 them." 
 
 " You are wandering away from the question and dwind- 
 ling me down to a mere sectarian Pharisee, M. de Beaus- 
 set," I said. " I have received so mvich individual kindness 
 since I came to France, that I should be ungrateful, indeed, 
 if I did not feel and acknowledge it. But I shall begin to 
 be despicable to myself if I continue to receive this kind- 
 ness on the condition of acknowledging my belief in mons- 
 trosities, that only excite my astonishment and disgust, of 
 acquiescing in oppressions that rouse my indignation. I 
 would rjAher live a free and vagabond life with Jose and Mor- 
 gotte than keep my place here on such terms." 
 
 ' " Ah, I dreaded coming to this !" salid M. de Bea;usset, 
 shrugging his shoulders. " Well ! run away from us, as 
 
PRBJUniCI! AT HOME. 800 
 
 you did from the English ; where will you go ? where to 
 find the impossibility you seek, to be free from the trammels 
 of popular practice or belief? You must try to put up with 
 us as we are, Marguerite. Absurdities are only absurdities 
 after all — laugh at them. As to oppressions, never attempt 
 to get yourself up as a redresser of wrongs." 
 
 " Well," I said, after a pause, " it matters little,; for my 
 sojourn here must, under any circumstances, be very brief." 
 
 " Why, you don't mean to say that you are going to run 
 away from us in reality ?" 
 
 " Most assuredly I shall, so soon as I can raise sufficient 
 means to carry me where I alone wish to be." 
 
 " To England again ?" 
 
 " Qh, no, no ! God forbid I should be forced to return 
 there ! To another land, far away over the wide sea ; the 
 land of which I dream day and night." 
 
 " You strange, wild girl !" said M. de Beausset, grasping 
 my hand till the pressure pained me, " who gave you this 
 mighty power of attracting, and hewildering, and torturing 
 me, from which I cannot free myself? Would to God we 
 had never met I" 
 
 He dropped my arm as he spoke, and I hastily re-entered 
 the room alone. The Chevalier de Eouhillac, to whom I had 
 previously been introduced, conducted me to a seat, and 
 engaged me in a lengthened conversation. I suppose I an- 
 swered coherently, for I afterwards heard that he had ex- 
 pressed a high opinion of my understanding ; but my mind 
 was in a .perfect tumult while I spoke. This M. de Beaus- 
 set, who had haunted me so long, as one to whom I owed a 
 large debt^to whom I could speak as I could speak to none 
 other — had certainly acquired ,a power of some kind over 
 myself, and of whitfh his impassioned words first made me 
 conscious. They conveyed a meaning terrible to him and 
 me, but they sent a thrill of wild delight through my very 
 soul that I made no attempt to free myself from. This ex- 
 quisite pleasure, in the midst of so much pain, mastered 
 me ; and I hoarded it as no miser ever hoarded his gold. — 
 With the knowledge that I could never be anything to him 
 more than I was, even if he had himself been free to choose,_ 
 I could not help exulting in the thought that I had created 
 
810 MAEGARET ;0B, 
 
 an interest in his heart for which I was indebted to ntj 
 power out of my own hands. The same sympathy of soul 
 that drew ua together was henceforward to keep us apart ; 
 but there was to me almost too exquisite a pleasure in the 
 very suffering of this situation. I no longer felt my utter 
 desolation, for even here there was one human being — and 
 he one of the noblest of his kind — who must think of me 
 perforce, and without, indiflference. The very impossibilities 
 about us seemed to sublimate his hopeless attachment. We 
 should honor each other the more in the mutual avoidance, 
 that would leave unsevered the strong cord that should have 
 bound us to each other. This, then was my destiny ; and I 
 thought it a glorious one. I had been loved for myself 
 alone, and could I bear the image of one, whose nature I be- 
 lieved to be noble, in my heart to the grave ? 
 
 I was not deceived in my estimate of M. de Beausset, who 
 avoided me as much as possible. On my part, I was more 
 eager than ever to raise the means of going out to Austra- 
 lia; and mademoiselle de Lammenais, together with the 
 comtesse, with whom I was to remain after the marriage of 
 the former, if I chose, tendered me so liberal a salary, that 
 I hoped to be able to accomplish my object in twelve 
 months : a long time to look forward to, and yet not long, 
 considering under what circumstances I had conceived this 
 plan of working ray way to my grand-father. 
 
 I passed most of my time with the comtesse, who liked 
 the society of young people, and who could not often com- 
 mand that of her grand-daughter, who' seemed to be mis- 
 tress of her own time and actions. What with the reminis- 
 cences of her gallantries and other records of her early days, 
 and the odd devices and encumbrances of her fits of devo- 
 tion, the comtesse kept me pretty well amused. I could 
 not help pitying her very much. She seemed to live in a 
 constant terror of her own old age. It s6emed to me more 
 of a bugbear to her than the hell or the purgatory, for ex- 
 emption from which she labored so contimiously and hardly. 
 She would not look at her own face in the glass, and fre- 
 quently asked Maraude and myself if we thought she looked 
 so' very old. Her hands were a constant source of lamenta- 
 tion to her. With all her cumbrous contrivances for salva^ 
 
rKEJtTDICE AT HOME Sll 
 
 tion, her spiritual trust appeared to be small, for she had^ 
 great horror of dying ; and this state of mind magnified her 
 small ailments, sp that she fancied herself near death some- 
 times twice in a day. Then it was at once ludicrous and 
 distressing to hear her alternately asking the intercession of 
 the saints, and calling upon us to assure her that she was 
 not so ill as she thought she was. To me she became very 
 much attached, because I was a patient listener, and did not 
 care to leave her. She rehearsed my good qualities to 
 every visitor, and blessed the saints and mother Madeleine 
 for having provided her with a companion so suited to her 
 every way. In my constant and close communication with 
 her I learned a good deal of the Leigh family, of which 1 
 had been in ignorance. Herself and lady Leigh were the 
 
 daughters of the late, and sisters of the present earl of ; 
 
 and the comtesse -had become estranged from her family 
 through her marriage and subsequent conversion to the 
 church of Rome. She spoke of the frigid, puritanical piety 
 of lady Leigh, with ridicule at one time, and at another with 
 horror ; and mentioned some of the enormities of General 
 and Colonel Leigh (who, she said, were well matched,) that 
 made my blood run cold. These revelations, however, her 
 dislike to these people, and her kindness to myself, and the 
 copsciousness that some of her blood flowed in my veins, by 
 •whatever means, served to attach me to her, silly and un- 
 principled as she was. I quitted her with real reluctance, 
 when mademoiselle de Lammenais would have her own way 
 and drag me out into society. In that society M. de 
 Beausset never approached to address me ; and both in her 
 own home and elsewhere, wherever I encountered he>, the 
 Marquise de Pauvenay absorbed my interest. She had evi- 
 dently been stricken by some mortal sorrow. She was wan- 
 dering about with the arrow of death in her heart. I one 
 day mentioned her to the comtesse. 
 
 " Ah, yes !" she said, " you are right ; the poor marquise 
 has something to put up with. She loves her husband, and 
 he hates her ; everybody knows that, and that de Pauvenay 
 is the greatest libertine in France. He is really bad, for he 
 hates his children, too ; and there are three of them, poor 
 things 1 shut wo in an old chS,teau many leagues off. He 
 
312 makgaret; ob, 
 
 urges his wife to stop with them, but she, vjnhappy wom3,n ! 
 lingers here to le^rn the extent of her misery. There was 
 nothing so enormously wicked in my days." 
 
 I thought there had been something very like it ip. her 
 own days, as several of her admirers had been married men, 
 to say nothing of her having been married herself. If struck 
 me as very odd that she never mentioned the Comte d& 
 Lammenais, except on two or three occasions, when she 
 spake of funds appropriated to the payment of masses for 
 the repose of his soul. Altogether it struck me that mo- 
 rality, amongst the higher classes, was not in a very flpurishing 
 condition in France. 
 
 After being in the h6tel de Lammenais three months, I 
 was enabled to transnait to mother Meulen the money, she 
 had lent me, together with a small present of a shawl ; and 
 I heard from her, in reply, that they were all well an,d hap- 
 py, and glad to hear of my well-being. In the course of 
 that time I had contrived to put Cldmence's letter in the 
 post, but of the poor girl herself I could gain no tidings. 
 Her probation and M. de Beausset's were to end at the same 
 time. He was to be married and she professed at Midsum- 
 mer ; how would it be with both of them ,? 
 
 I was allowed a large latitude for a convert, for my own 
 declaration that I did not yet feel prepared, excused me thus 
 far from attending the confessional. Therefore I was not "as 
 yet formally received into the church. Father Dessalle and 
 the comtesse admonished me frequently on this point show- 
 ing the comfort and advantage of unburdening the con- 
 science of its accumulations of sin, and plentifully supply- 
 ing me with books upon the subject. These books revolted 
 me ; if I did not of myself know where to begin, they, at 
 least could not tell me where I might end. I had many 
 thoughts and failings that I wished to keep sacred betwixt 
 God and myself, but none so gross as those , that I under- 
 stood I might be questioned about, according to the formula 
 set before me. Between my strong disgust and my neces- 
 sities I did not know how it would be with me ; but I was 
 quite resolved that no mortal man should have the chance 
 of putting those questions to me. 
 
 There was still the great blank in my life, the void _that 
 
PKEJCDICS AT HOME. 313- 
 
 might, aot be filled up ; — no tidings of those I loved- — no 
 hope of them. Dreams brought the lost back to me, but 
 they were never happy «nes. I stood with them amid bat- 
 tles and shipwrecks, or we were starving and shivering to- 
 gether in darkened rooms or on bleak heaths, or I was kneel- 
 ing and weeping by their dy^ng beds. The thoughts of the 
 day were scarcely better than this^ though the old convic- 
 tion that I must go on was still strong upon me. What 
 was the eomething that I felt it imperative upon me to 
 r(8ach ! • ■ 
 
 During these months I had frequently been told that I was 
 handsome. IJiad, to my great annoyance, a number of ad- 
 mirers, of whom the Chevalier de fioubillao was the moat 
 persevering. He was a man of middle age, almost gigantic 
 in stature, and his^ bushy, black whiskers and mustachips, 
 gave a fierce expression to an otherwise rather unmeaning 
 face. This gentleman, who was distinguished by great flu- 
 key of Spessph, but w;hose character did not seem to be re- 
 markable any way, had been in the army under Louis and 
 Charles, and he was in the army still. He was, moreover, 
 of a good family, and possessed an estj^te. He took it into 
 his head to propose formally for my hand, 
 
 I gave him the only answer that I had to give, for no pri- 
 vation and dependence on the one hand, or prospect of ad- 
 vantage on the other, could have induced me to bestow my 
 hand where ay heart was indifferent, even if the many other 
 obstacles in the way had not existed. The chevalier, how- 
 ever, was one of those monotonously wearying people, who 
 can neither be offended, nor alarmed, nor convinced ; and 
 with a patience quite incompatible with ardor, he continued 
 to intercede and hope on. He had made his intentions 
 known to the comtesse, and had asked her to use her influ- 
 ence in his behalf; but the comtesse took my part, and ex- 
 pressed her pleasure at his dismissal. Mademoiselle de Lam- 
 menais, on the contrary, considered it an advantageous offer, 
 and marvelled at my rejection. She held out all kinds of 
 inducements to bring me, as she said, to reason. 
 
 "You say you are too jouug,— -ma foi! it isn't with us 
 as it is with you English, vvhc> fall at once into slavgry and 
 dpwdyism on getting married. Here marriage confers a 
 
314 MARGARET; OR, 
 
 liUfeTty rarely to be eBJoyed by tbe single. Few yotiirg la- 
 dies jire so independent as I am, for I am pecvtliaply placed. 
 When once yoo are married, tbe number of your admirers 
 ■will increase ten-fold. Th«se are great adraatagesy— ^don't 
 yofl see ?" 
 
 " Advantages ef wbicb I could make no use," I said. — 
 " Sucrh condaet seems to me immoral •, it shocks me ; my 
 education has been different, and I cannot alter these views." 
 
 Mademoiselle de Lammenais laughed at me heartily. 
 " What a seletffn face E" she said ; " bow really awfal this 
 prudery is I There is less of actiial sin amoii-gst us with ouy 
 tree manners than amongst yon with all this pretence of 
 sanctity. Here comes M. d'e Beausset, who, of all men I 
 Icnow, is most deseirving of an Bbglish wife. Be himself 
 has a few humdrum iiotions that almost frighten me." 
 
 We were seated daring this conversasion in an arbor iit 
 the garSfen. I had net seen M. de Beausset t© speafe 
 to biro for nearly three months — not since tbe night when ' 
 ■we were on tbe balcony at tbe Marquise de Pauvenay's. 
 As be now approached, I arose, and attempted to go- away, 
 but mademoiselle de Lammenais stopped me. 
 
 " Another of your English notions," she said ; " yoiu fancy 
 you laay be an intenuption to some necessary billing and 
 cooing, while, in fact, if yon leave us- togBtber, we shall be 
 sure to quarrel. Is it not so, Victor ? Marguerite has been 
 making me laugh ; she is horrified at the idltgl of having 
 admirers after she is married." 
 
 " A singular young lady, indeed 1" said M. de Beausset, 
 " Does she fancy she can always be in love with ber hus- 
 band ?" 
 
 " Not quite so mostrotis as that," said mademoiselle de 
 Leniffieuais; "she only supposes she ought to be. If one 
 could cure ber of these notions, there might be hope for 
 the poor ehe^valier." 
 
 " My notions of any kind would make no difference in 
 that respect," I said, quietly continuing tbe work I was up- 
 on — a new robe for our Lady Loretto; 
 
 " I never met with any one so obdurate, so unimpressible," 
 eajd mademoiaeUe de Lammenais. " She will neither please 
 fitheys ii&t be pfe^§4 be^self. Positively, a conquest seems 
 
PRBJUDICB AT HOME. 315 
 
 to afford her no pleasure. I have an idea' that she has left 
 her heart behind her in England." 
 
 I looked up in surprise. " Indeed, you mistake," I said ; 
 " in England I had something else to do and think of." 
 
 " Well, don't look so horrified," sajd Mademoiselle de Lam- 
 menais, -laughing. "One might almost imagine that in 
 England you consider being in love a species of crime." 
 
 " Circumstances may make it so." 
 
 " But — bless me ! you're not married already, are jow, 
 Marguerite ?" 
 
 "No, certainly not," I said, smiling at the oddness of the 
 idea. " I am not, and I never shall be." 
 
 "What folly! What a singular freak in a girl young 
 and handsome ! M. de Beausset, you have been very sui'ly 
 of late ; you never help me as you should. You neglect 
 your protegee too ; why do you not advise her for hej^good 
 on this momentous occasion ?" 
 
 M. de Beausset, after saluting us politely, had seated him- 
 self, and was now leaning on the arbor table, apparently 
 waliohing my work. The question made him start, and he 
 threw himself back. 
 
 " I advise !" he exclaimed ; " I have never been able to 
 advise myself for any good purpose. Mademoiselle Mar- 
 guerite is the best judge of what is for her own happiness." 
 
 " How cold and precise ! Do you know, Victor, that you 
 are very Engliiff in your notions, and' that " 
 
 " And that you are very French in yours. Yes, I have 
 had a glimmering of the fact. I believe I spoke to you on 
 this very subject last night." 
 
 " Oh, if you are going to lecture me again I must posi- 
 tively run for it. I have a hundred things to do this morn- 
 ing, and you two will get on very well together." 
 
 She tripped away, and I turned pale with fright as I has- 
 tily rose to follow her. M. de Beausset held my arm, and. 
 detained me. 
 
 " Don't fear me, Marguerite," he said ; " I will say noth- 
 ing that you ought not listen to, but you must hear me. — 
 You do not yet understand your position here,, which is her 
 coining dangerous. I have brought you into this troijble, 
 and I musthdp you out of it," 
 
316 MARQARET ; OR, 
 
 I thoiiglit he alluded to the persecution of the Chevalier 
 Eonbillao. " You magnify trouble and danger, sir," I said. 
 " The comtesse quite approves of what I have done, and she 
 can protect me." 
 
 " Yes, from a husband ; neither she nor the priests wish 
 you to marry. They have at present another destiny for 
 you. Will you trust yourself with me a little further down 
 this walk 2" 
 
 I placed my work Upon the table and rose up ; he seemed 
 to have something serious to communicate to me, and I did 
 not hesitate about learning what it was. As he passed, he 
 gave the embroidery a contemptuous toss. 
 
 " For whom amongst the blessed do you design this fine- 
 ry f he asked. 
 
 ',' It is the comtesse's gift to our Lady of Loretto," I 
 said. % 
 
 " Well, kings ere now have employed themselves in mak- 
 ing petticoats for the same personage. But the comtesse — 
 I thought she devoted herself exclusively to our Lady of 
 Cleury. Perhaps she considered it necessary to propitiate 
 the other lady. You see there are above a score of th«m, 
 and to oflfend one is to offend all." 
 
 "For shame, M. de Beausset 1" I said i;^ " you profess this 
 faith, and you ridicule it !" -;.' ' ■ 
 
 " Think as hardly of me as you like, only don't take mo 
 for a fool," he said. " I could" not bear that worn you." He 
 led me into a retired and shady walk, and -then drew forth 
 a long scroll of paper. 
 
 " Cast your eyes over this, and be quick," he said. " You 
 see your name written here — 'Margaret Payne :' and what 
 follows." 
 
 This was what followed the name : " Bold, ambitious, 
 strongly inclined to unbelief ; enterprising, and particularly 
 sensitive to kindness. Must be trusted with some power as 
 a motive, and must discern good in it. Unmanageable here, 
 and must be removed." 
 
 ' Poor me ! could it be a fact that the Church had thus 
 been occupied in analyzing my character all this time J I 
 lifted my eyes to M. de. Beausset. 
 ."How did you get possession of this ?" I asked. 
 
PEBJUDIOK AT HOME, 317 
 
 " I am indebted for it to the ingenuity of Jos6 who has 
 peculiar opportunities for helping his friends who may be in 
 distress. You may rest assured that it was stolen, or it 
 would never have come into my possession." 
 
 " Ah ! I shall bring you into trouble," I said. " How un- 
 happy all this is ! But there is a remedy : I must fly from 
 this place." 
 
 " You must not !" said M. de Beausset. " Have a little 
 pity upon me. Marguerite — you will drive me mad ! This 
 missive had to be conveyed, with others, to Rome, and the 
 messenger is yet detained on the road. You are perfectly 
 safe for some time to come. When there is danger to you, 
 I shall know it, for I am on the watch. Will you trust to 
 me, and remain quiet for the present ?" 
 
 I was not so much alarmed on my own account by this 
 danger, which only threatened to make a tool of me. Now 
 that I was forewarned, what did it matter? I readily gave 
 my promise to M. de Beausset on one condition. 
 
 " I can remain without any fear, if you will leave me to 
 my own resources. If you interfere and involve yourself, 
 you will force me to fly." 
 
 " And you will not accept any service at my hands. Mar- 
 guerite ? You despise me, as you do others." 
 
 " You do me injustice," I said. " You should see the pro- 
 priety of my request." 
 
 " I am already a martyr to propriety," said M. de Beaus- 
 set; " I haro the word! Promise, then, that you will not 
 shrink from asking my help, if you need it." 
 
 But I knew that I should shrink from asking it ; and I 
 remained silent, and hurried on to the arbor to fetch my 
 work. 
 
 " This is cruel and wnkind," said M. de Beausset. " Why 
 may I not be your friend ? — Because I am fettered by this 
 unhappy engagement, which is burdening me to death! 
 You understand how I am -punished, and you add to my 
 misery !" 
 
 " Do not force me to despise you, indeed," I said, sternly 
 and sorrowfully ; " you, whose remembrance I would pre- 
 serve in my heart without a stain." 
 
318 MARS ABET ; OR, 
 
 Oh, how Idi'eaded beiag coiUpelled to believe e«vil of 'this 
 man ! 
 
 M. de Beausset fell into one of the seats, and buried his 
 face in his hands-, I took Tip my wort, and so left him. 
 
 CHAPTER Xm. 
 
 There was a grand fete to be given at the Marqilis de 
 'Pauvenay's, and 'Mademoiselle de Lammenais itosisted upon 
 my accompanying her. I iaoquieseed the less reluotautly, 
 because I felt an taneaay interest in the poor marquis, that, 
 in the, midst of my other troubles, allowed me no rest. It 
 is natural that the unfortunate should feel an interest in one 
 another, but something beyond this ieommon attraction 
 "seemed to draw me towards this foi'lorn and most unhappy 
 Woman : I could not help thinking that some dreadful catas- 
 trophe would be the Qonsequsnce of feelings so deep and so 
 "terribly roused. -Her noble figure, distinguished above all 
 others in the crowd — her troubled, though usually ealtq, 
 "countenance — her wandering eyes, ■so often flashing, as if 
 fi-om some inward fire, — fascinated my gaze, so that I conl^ 
 observe little else 'when she was near me. Th^marquis, gal- 
 -lant and attentive to every lady present, withoiit being par- 
 ticular, so far as I could observe, appeared at all times to he 
 oblivious of her presence. 
 
 I must here mention, in grateful remembrance of Made- 
 moiselle de Lammenais, that with all her faults, — rather the 
 iresult of education than of any native depravity of heart, — 
 she was generous, and affable, and confiding ; free from the 
 offensive pride that exhibits itself in self-exaltation, or in op- 
 pressing- others ; wishful, if not anxious, for the happiness 
 of all around her ; liberal to excess. In a word, she was 
 not capricious ; andshe only became little by forgetting lier, 
 "self. To me, dependent and unknqjvn, and, above all, flat- 
 tered as I was in the society to- which she introduced -me- 
 her sisterly manner never changed. She was constantly 
 
PKEJtJDIOB AT HOME. S19 
 
 giving me presents of ikess, tliat enabled me to hoard up 
 my salary ; and ske seldom wiliingly went abroad without 
 me. 
 
 All this inspired me, by degrees, with a grateful attaeh- 
 jnent that made rae anxious for her happiness with M. de 
 Beausset. Emotions had been roused within me that made 
 me feel like a oulprit in her presence : I crushed them out, 
 and felt happier for the effort. He had loved her at some 
 former period, and her own frivolity had most probably es- 
 tranged him. I thought it would be well repaying the debt 
 I owed M. de Beausset if I eould restore this merely thought- 
 less girl to him and to herself. 
 
 And therefore I frequently spoke of what I considered 
 wrong in hei' mann^er, both to M. de Beausset and abroad^ 
 with the freedom that she allowed me. On these occasions 
 she umiforiMna'tely had the heagh. of her prejudices against 
 me. 
 
 " Ma ehere Anglaise," she would say, " don't Attempt to 
 freeze me with these cold decorums of your nation 3 You 
 forget that I was b^n nearer the sun, and that I have as 
 much right to exercise my privileges as you have. You 
 eee, all this is inevitable : you continue a puritan and I a 
 coquette." 
 
 I could get nethiag more out of her; but th^e was this 
 satisfaction in being with Emillle de Lammenaisj that she 
 did not carenbout my feeing anything more than the puritan 
 she called me. Indeed, she openly asserted that it was a 
 shame to spoil me by attempting to make a Cath^Jie of me, 
 perfect as I was in my original state. In her presence, 
 therefore, I felt freed from every restraint, and this drew vts 
 inor« closely together. On this occasion of our attending 
 the fete at the Marqtiis de PauvnayX she was more than 
 usually anxious about our dress. She wished us to be dress- 
 ed alike, and, to my surprise, had provided for this arrange- 
 ment There was still a wide difference in our appearance. 
 She was much shorter and more slender than myself; her 
 very fair skin and braided flaxen hair were remarkable, 
 while I was a brunett*»with heavy masses of dark hair curl- 
 ing naturally. .1 ineffectually attempted a, remonstrance, for 
 I considered that there was an impropriety in this outward 
 
320 makgaret; ok 
 
 show of an equality that did not exist. I appealed to her 
 in every available way, feeling that I shonld attract more 
 observation and criticism than would be pleasant to myself; 
 but mademoiselle de Lammenais coaxed and entreated (she 
 never commanded) till I was almost ashamed of my refusal ; 
 and so she had her wa/. 
 
 As I lost sight of mademoiselle de LamUmenais almost im- 
 mediately on my entrance into the crowded saloons of the 
 bdtel de Pauvenay, I soon dismissed from my mind the cir- 
 cumstance of our being dressed alike. She left me in charge 
 of Madame de Vigny, a lady with whom I had some previ- 
 ous acquaintance, and she turned me over to the old Oom- 
 tesse de Reuilly, Seated by her side, I looked vainly ronnd 
 for the marquis, and my companion soon brought me back 
 to myself. 
 
 " My dear," she said, " how long do you inteitd to keep 
 up this mystery that is puzzling us all ? Don't you think 
 you have teased us long enongh'l" 
 
 " About what, madam ?" 
 
 " How innocent you look ! About your real name, and 
 birth, and connexions, to be sure. All Paris is asking, ' Who 
 is this Marguerite who is seen and talked of everywhere, and 
 yet whom nobody knows V It is understood that the 
 Chevalier Eoubillac is your suitor, and people ask, ' With 
 whom is he about to allay himself ?' All this is very natu- 
 ral, you know. There is a rumor that you are the daughter 
 of an English lord ; others say that you are related to the 
 de Lammenais ; for my part, I don't see the use of being 
 mystical on the subject. You are young, and this is the 
 fault of your advisors." 
 
 " Indeed madam," I said, hastily, " you mistake^ There 
 is no mystery, no need for any. I have no pretension ; I 
 am humbly born-; I am even less than I seem to be, because 
 I owe everything about me here to the kindness of my pro- 
 tectors. I explained all this to the Chevalier Eoubillae 
 when I declined the honor he intended me. I assure you 
 this is the simple truth ^' 
 
 " Ah, it is a charming little roMfance, and I don't take 
 this for the denouement," said the comtesse. '-' I must wait 
 longer, I see. 
 
phejtjdice at home. 321 
 
 This distressed me very mucii. I could bear to receive 
 courtesies on my own account ; I was proud of the unhappy 
 protectors of my childhood, though I felt the impossibility 
 of proclaiming them to the world: but to be taken for what 
 I was not, and received in society upon the strength of sup- 
 position, seemed to give an air of imposture even to 
 the small place I occupied that appalled me. Surely this 
 idea was not general ? surely it was not entertained by my 
 benefactors themselves ? Yet now, when I was set thinking 
 on the subject, even this seemed possible. I had been met 
 with in an extraordinary manner; I had only spoken of the 
 past as too painful for myself to dwell upon ; and my edu- 
 cation — perhaps my very appearance — might have given 
 the idea that I was well born. M. de Beausset himself had 
 probably fallen into this mistake. Miserable misconception ! 
 How I might be depreciated in the opinion of all these peo- 
 ple by the knowledge of what I really was ! 
 
 This kind of position revealed to me my own powers of 
 self-sustainment ; but it was less easy to support the body 
 than the soul. To what sordid and petty necessities did I 
 owe most of the sufferings of my past life ! what trouble 
 from the same source still ■ lay before me ! The glittering 
 throng oppressed me with its gaiety, and as I had not yet 
 'been found by the ChevaUer Roub'illac, there seemed to be 
 a good opportunity for gliding out into the garden, which I 
 could easily do by way of the balcony. It was a moon- 
 Tess night, and rather cold, for it had rained during the day. 
 I wandered into the remotest alleys, not thinking of the im- 
 propriety of being there alone, or of the minor folly of lin- 
 gering in the wet with my thin shoes. It at length occurred 
 to me that I might be missed; and I was returning by the 
 way of an arbor not far from the house, when I became 
 aware that some persons were in it, by whom I must be seen 
 if I passed, while if I retraced my steps, I should have to go 
 a long way round. -I had come close upon the spot in the 
 midst of the trees and thick shrubs that surrounded it, and 
 I could not be mistaken' in the two voices that met my 
 ear during the brief p^use I made. " They were those of a 
 man and a woman, and the woman was sobbing bitterly. 
 
 " Come, come, Emellie," said the man, whom I knew at 
 14 
 
8^3 mapg^aeet; ok 
 
 ©■nee • to be the Mayqliis de.- Pauvenay, " you will expose 
 yourself to-night if you give way like this. . I promise, on 
 inyhpnor, to take you away the instant I have completed 
 my preparations. Dou't be alarmed: I hare a plaa that 
 will save us both." 
 
 " Oh, I am so wr6tch,ed, Louis," sobbed his companion ; 
 " I cani>ot remain here, it will kill me, 1" , 
 
 Gpnsternation chained me to the spot. on which I stood; I 
 Jeaned against one of the trees, breathless .and shivering.; I 
 only heard one other sentence. The marquis said, " Quick, 
 quick ! this is folly !'' and the next miaute he came out and 
 rushed past me so close that he almost touched my dress. 
 Emillie de Lammenais also presently passed from the arbor, 
 and walked quickly down the path leading to the balcony. 
 I remained a long time where I was, feeling faint, sick, and 
 . frightened. I might have remained half the night, if some 
 one had not seized my arm roughly. I started from my 
 reverie in fresh terror, and saw the gipsy girl, Morgotte._ 
 
 " What brought you here to be a spy upon them ?" she 
 aukftd in a savage tone. " Do you , pretend , yet that you 
 care nothing for M. de Beausset, though you are busying 
 yourself, with 'the doings of hia mistress ?" 
 
 "I am here quite by-accident, Morgotte," I said. 
 , The girl burst into .her .wild laugh, 
 
 ",S^y that to them that will believe you," she said, "I 
 hate you ! and I know that you are full of deceit !" 
 
 As she rushed away I roused myself. I .^had oeKtainly no 
 business there ; I was laying myself open to suspicions, ai^d 
 I had no sight to expect any one to believe me in a matter 
 in which I had exkibtted such a want of prudence. I has- 
 tened back by the .longer, but more retir^id path, which ter- 
 minated in a large conservatory. -The door was open, and.,1 
 knew there was a communication this way into the house. 
 In theinterior I saw a distant glimmering of radiance, that, 
 falling -amid, the exotic rflo.wers and,.frpts, and many-shaped 
 leaves, produced a variety of strange lights and shadows. 
 As I moved amidst them I heard other steps, stilthily track- 
 ing mine, I thought; but on looking round I just caught, a 
 glimpse of Morgotte, and the marquise entering, one of the 
 sections of ^he .conservatory where the darkness was unbro- 
 
PBEJODIGE AT HOME, >S23 
 
 keti. Was it pdissibJe that this unhappy woman had Buh- 
 mitted to the degradation of making an outcast girl a spy 
 up*>n her husband's actions, and the depositary of her own 
 dishonor! What wretchedness ! what an accumulation was 
 here of sin, and shame, and pollution ! All the produce «f 
 one bad man's heart, and that man so admired, so honored 
 by the world ! In What frightfiil outburat of human agony 
 and outraged trust would it all end 3 
 
 I re-entered one of the saloons, and as I was looking 
 round for the Coratesse de Reuilly I perceived laademoisella 
 de Lammenajs chatting gaily to a circle of gentlemen, ap- 
 parently full of life and spirits, and wi1ii no trace of her 
 late agitation visible in her c<»intenance. I shrank back ; 
 I did not feel able just then to encounter her, and I fell 
 into the hands of liie Chevalier Eoubillae. 
 
 " I have been inquiring aasd looking for you everywhere," 
 lie said ; " what was it that spirited you away f You know 
 that, in spite of your cruelty, L feel lost out of your pres- 
 ence." 
 
 He found me a seat beside th« deaf old Comtesse de 
 Bayard, who looked on this- gay scene through, her specta- 
 cles. It sti'uok me as something very mejancholy, this 
 «linging of the decaying senses to the transitory enjoyments 
 of earth. The Conatesse de Lammenais had a horror of 
 making a public exhibition of her wrinkles and infirmities ; 
 but in her own way she destroyed all feeling of reverence in 
 others, and was miserable in 'hers^. How different these 
 old .people were to my grand-father, with his, earnest piety 
 regttldting, all the eonduct of his iite; to Aunt Betsy, with 
 ber strength of mind, swaid sturdy principle to do right, let 
 the sacrifee be what it would! The more I saw of the 
 world, the more I honored these two, from whom I was, 
 perhaps, separated for ever. 
 
 Asl sat listening to the chevalier, andparryisg his com- 
 pliments as well as I: could, I had a full view of the eirrfe 
 surrounding mademoiselle ide Lammenais. The marquis 
 was there, talking as gaily as the rest. I looked round in 
 vain for thei marquise. She was, perhaps, not yet capable 
 of bringing her agony into that gay, scene. These new 
 interests were .fillitig, imy heart with a profouuder and more 
 
3S4 MARGARBl", OR, 
 
 purifying sorrow. I was lifted ont of self, and, during the 
 process, I learned that mine had not been the greatest of 
 human trials. I might have thought that I had much to 
 be thankful for ; but that, I fear, did not occur to me. I 
 was y6t far from God, though drawing nearer to him through 
 his creatures. 
 
 The chevalier was called from my side, and a few minutes 
 afterwards M. de Beausset approached me. 
 
 " You look weary," he said ; " I have been observing yon 
 some time." 
 
 " I am weary," I replied ; and I lifted my eyes to bis 
 pityingly. 
 
 " Ma belle Marguerite," he said, seating himself beside me, 
 " those large, melancholy eyes of yours always make my 
 heart ache. 'Hiey possessed this influence over me from 
 the first. To-night they are more than ususiUy powerful ; 
 there is a look in thepi, too, as if you had something to 
 reveal to me. Is it so. Marguerite V 
 
 " Nay, it is nothing," I said, turning away. 
 
 " Nothing ! what a blank word t The soUl will not be 
 satisfied with this nothing, which is the sole fruit of its 
 wishes and its hopes. I feel to-night as one in a dry desert, 
 who has no chance of reaching the spring that might 
 quench his thirst, — the verdure -that might assure him of 
 life. I am altogether in an atmosphere of decay, and rot- 
 tenness, and death." 
 
 Was this presentiment ? I thought so. I felt an invinci- 
 ble repugnance to continue this conversation, which op- 
 pressed me more than I could well bear,- I was lo^kibg 
 round for some one I knew, in order to join them, when the 
 Gomtesse de Eeuilly beckoned me to approach her. 
 
 She took my 'arm, and led me out of the room and 
 down stairs. 
 
 " I think we can rely upon your discretion," she said : 
 " the poor marquise has been seizeel with a fit. She is bet- 
 ter now, and she does not want to disturb her guests. She 
 has asked to see you. There is something very dreadful in 
 this, I'm afraid ; something fresh about the marquis, who, 
 between you and me, uses her worse than a dog. I found 
 her, by chance, with a strange, wild-looking girl, who must 
 
Missing Page 
 
®25 ' maroabst; ob, 
 
 against it. I went up to her and bent down, and threw my 
 arms about her neck, but she took no notice of me, and con- 
 tinued tossing abqut in her agonizing grief, so that we fre- 
 quently nearly fell together. The poor, distracted head ! 
 how recklessly she dashed it against anything that came in 
 her way ! 
 
 In tones, now meaningly low and heart-rending to hear, 
 now fierce with all the violence of her soul's indignation, 
 she poured forth impassioned words, forgetting, perhaps, that 
 she was not alone. 
 
 " My children ! my poor children ! neglected, hated for 
 their mother's sake ! — my noble, tender Ernest — my beauti- 
 ful Louise — my fair-haired little Marie, with her loving 
 heart! Oh, God! why were these given to me? — And this 
 man, whom I have loved so well, he sees and knows it, and 
 he treats me with the cold indifference, the silent contempt, 
 that leave no chance, no hope of change ! But thou,- 
 God, that seest my wrongs, wilt avenge me ! What is there 
 that I have not suffered at his hands ? — outrage in my 
 home, scorn in the world, all my hopes crushed, all my af- 
 fections blighted, all my feelings worn down by this slavery 
 of insult and grief? ils not this too cruel, oh, my Father, 
 from whom nothing is hidden ? — have I not more than I 
 can bear ?" 
 
 The very exhaustion of her struggles, bodily and mental, 
 at length calmed her ; but there seemed no effort in her to 
 rise from the posture she was in. I still bent over her and 
 my tears fell fast. 
 
 !' I am wearily punished !" she said, lifting her pale, hag- 
 gard face, and regarding me with her burning eyes. " If 
 this was only a dream and no reality it would still be too 
 bitter. You seem to feel for me, and I thank you, but 
 . leave me now. I too will leave this place, full of pollu- 
 tions. I will no longer struggle for that which is impossi- 
 ble ; I will devote myself to my children and we will con- 
 sole one another — we who are hated so unnaturally ?" 
 
 " Allow me to help you," I said, still bending over her. — 
 . She gently put my arm away. 
 
 "You will- not," she continued, " tell them of this up yon- 
 
PREJUDICE AT 'B.OilE. 327 
 
 der — not now — not till I have had time to reach the home 
 of my children ? I ask this." 
 
 " Neither now nor at any time will I mention what I 
 have seen and heard to these people," I said. 
 
 " God bless you !" said the marquise. " You are young ; 
 God preserve you from trial like mine ! Don't fancy you 
 can help me otherwise than by leaving me to myself. I 
 must be alone before I can rouse myself. Go, go !" " 
 
 There was evidently nothing better that I could do for 
 her. I arose in silence, unlocked the door and closed it 
 after me. The Comtesse de Reuilly seized upon me, and 
 was offended because I had nothing to communicate. After 
 another weary hour I entered the carriage with mademoiselle 
 de Lammenais, and we drove home. 
 
 I" now understood the meaning of a gravity, sometimes 
 amounting to sadness, that I had observed in mademoiselle 
 de Lammenais for the last three weeks. I was very glad 
 :that this fit was upon her during our drive, so that she did 
 not speak, and that upon our arrival at the hotel she hastily 
 bade me good night, and dismissed me. I not only could 
 not feel any sympathy for her just then, but fresh as I was 
 from witnessing the grief of the injured marquise, I was 
 sure that my indignation would find a vent some way. M. 
 de Beausset was altogether a minor consideration ; indeed, 
 this inevitable separation of the two was so far a happiness 
 for both because they were unsuited to each other, and they 
 knew itK, and they could only have been made wretched to- 
 gether by an indissoluble tie. I, who had never been re- 
 strained in the expression of my feelings by conventional 
 rules, wondered how I should be able to meet mademoiselle 
 de Lammenais again without giving her some intimation of 
 what I thought and felt. I was quite determined not to go 
 out with her again; and, altogether, it seemed probable 
 that I should have to provide myself with another home. — 
 These thoughts kept me long awake, but I was sleeping 
 when Maraude came to my bedside, and asked me to get 
 up and go to the comtesse, who thought she was dying. I 
 went to her, and found her, as usual, more terrified than 
 really ill ; but the physician and father DessaUe were sent 
 "for, and we remained up witii her. The morning was fitt 
 
328 MARaABIET; OB, 
 
 advanced wlien the physician arrived, and after pronouncing 
 that the oomtesse was not in any danger, he drew me out 
 of the room, and told me that a horrible affair had occur- 
 red during the night, — the Marquise de Pauvenay had been 
 found murdered in her apartment, and the marquis was ar- 
 rested on suspicion of being the murderer. 
 
 I cannot well describe the way in which I received this news. 
 So many horrors coming upon me at once seemed to fr§e;se 
 up my faculties. I wandered about during many hours, 
 doing things mechanically, hearing a great deal about this 
 murder that had excited the whole population of Paris, and 
 saying little. I was first roused by the comtesse asking me 
 to communicate these tidings to her grand-daughter, who 
 had not yet been disturbed. I shuddered, and declared my- 
 self unequal to the task, which was then committed to 
 Maraude. As she went out of i the room the comtesse dis- 
 patched me to fetch something for her out of the drawing- 
 room. I found M. de Beaussefc there ; he approached me, 
 and held out his hand. ■ . 
 
 " You look :pale and ill " he said ; " you have heard of 
 this great misery ? Ah ! how dreadful , it is ?" 
 
 I had not had time to reply when a terrible shriek from 
 Emillie's chamber reached us. I snatched my hand from 
 his, and hastened to this new scene of terror. Mademoiselle 
 de Lammenais was in strong convulsions, and the physician, 
 who had only lately quitted the Tipuse, was again sent for. 
 I felt now for this poor girl, for I knew that her agony had 
 repentance in it. Hers was not a nature to persevere in 
 wilful sin, of which the consequences were so awful, and I 
 felt that her sufferings would be great. For many hours she 
 seemed hovering between life and death, and during that 
 time I never left her. When consciousness and compara- 
 tive calmness returned, she shrank away from me, and de- 
 sired to be left with her own maid. It was on the third day 
 after this when mademoiselle de Lamoienais, who had not 
 yet been able to leave her bed, requested an interview with 
 M.de Beausset. They .were together nearly an hour, and 
 when he left her he quitted the house. The comtesse, with 
 whom I was now altogether confined, complained loudly of 
 the trouble occasioned- by this indispositioa of her grand- 
 
PKKJUDICE AT HOME. 329 
 
 daughter, untU informed by father Dessalle that it was 
 mademoiselle de Lammenais's intention to enter a convent, 
 and devote the remainder of her days to the service of God. 
 This was, at first, a great surprise and shock to her, and it 
 seemed for the moment to rouse her out of her selfishness. 
 She was, however, too much under the influence of the 
 priests to persevere in any decided resistance of this, to her, 
 strange determination. , As mademoiselle de Lammenais 
 continued too ill to leave her room, and the comtesse had 
 an idea that it would kill her to move out of her own, 
 which she rarely did, the two did not meet until the day on 
 which the unhappy Emillie quitted her home for the last 
 time. 
 
 A fortnight elapsed, and M. de Beausset had never been 
 near the house. It seemed certain that Mademoiselle de 
 Lammenais had confessed'her sin to him, and I knew what 
 he must feel at this degredation of one whom he had once 
 loved. Oh, that every woman, before stooping to dishonor, 
 would seriously consider the shame that she is heaping upon 
 others of her sex, whether connected with her or not ; 
 the infamy, whose shadow spreads a wide darkness apart 
 from all the sorrow ; the exan^ple of weakness, of which 
 vice is always ready to take advantage ; the indelible stigma 
 upon which it thrives, and which furnishes a theme for its 
 godless wit ! "Why will not woman be true to herself, 
 knowing how this truth would help to regenerate the world ? 
 
 I suppose ic was the fault of my education that made me 
 feel as if I should be ashamed to look in M. de Beausset's 
 face again. I felt implicated in this dishonor : I said to my- 
 self, — Why should any of us be trusted, weak, and trivial, 
 and imbecile, and unprincipled, and wanting in self-respect, 
 as so many are ? All this distressed me, • apart from any 
 other causes of distress. 
 
 Mademoiselle de Lammenais quitted the house without 
 seeing me again. She, however, left a note for me, in which 
 I found these words : — 
 
 " Marguerite, 
 
 " I have not kept faith with M. de Beausset, and 
 I have proved to him the impossibility of our union. He 
 14* 
 
330 MARGARET ; OB, 
 
 loves yoq, and you are worthy of him. Do not refuse to 
 make Mm happy, if only for the sake of 
 
 " Emillie de Lammenais." 
 
 Poor Emillie ! she did not yet understand how many ob- 
 stacles to happiness there are in this world. Nothing was 
 more impossible than my union with M. de Beausset. 
 Should I also have to endure the trial of proving, this im- 
 possibility to him.? 
 
 The Comtesse d« Eeuilly and other visitors brought us 
 from time to time all the particulars respecting the murder 
 that had been collected, with perhaps a good dealof intelli- 
 gence that was imaginary. Many ladies were mentioned as 
 being rendered inconsolable, not by the dreadful end of the 
 poor marquise, but by the danger threatening the reputed 
 murderer ; and many anecdotes were related respecting the 
 intrigues in which he had been engaged. If suspicion had 
 ever rested upon Emillie, it of course was not to be repeated 
 in the hotel de Lammenais ; but when I was given to un- 
 derstand that the dress and office of a sister of mercy were 
 considered very convenient for the carrying on of an in- 
 trigue, I remembered that Mademoiselle de Lammenais had 
 frequently gone out in the habit at night, ^nd alone. The 
 teaching of her grand-mother, and the example of other^ 
 had prepared for her the way to this sin, whose punishment 
 in her case was so heavy. 
 
 With regard to the murder itself and the murderer, who 
 was shortly afterwards executed, full particulars respecting 
 both are to be found in the French chronicles of the time to 
 which I am referring. A sudden change in my own affairs 
 compelled me to put aside for a season my interest in oth- 
 (Brs.- 
 
 I had met once at the convent, and frequently at the h6t4 
 de 'Lammenais, a M. I'Abbe, Roullet, who had labored with 
 father Dessalle for my spiritual advancement. I had noth- 
 ing to dislike in this man beyond a bold look, which was 
 perhaps natural to him, and which was only to be borne on 
 the supposition that he could not help it. This abbe was 
 more indulgent than father Dessalle, who evidently grew out 
 . of patiaioe wili jny stubborn resistance of ghostly help m 
 
PKEIBDICB AT HOME. 331 
 
 the matter of my conscience. The ahb6 would laugh at my 
 sometimes freely-expressed opinions, and call me his " little 
 sinner," in a way that greatly encouraged me to sin on. — 
 And, widely as I had separated myself from the truth of God, 
 I was not made of the stuff that can be moulded into any 
 shape. I could put the idea of religion away from me, al- 
 together, as a delusive invention of man, hut I cmild not 
 consent to assist in making a farce of it, pretending belief 
 in what only excited my ridicule, aoquiesoences in what 
 roused my indignation. It had evidently become a question 
 with these people what they were to do with me, and I won- 
 dered why they would not leave me to myself. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 Mademoiselle de Lammenais had only been gone four 
 days, when the comtesse intimated to me that I might. as- 
 sist her in a very important matter. She had an estate and 
 chateau in Lombardy, in the latter of which were several 
 valuables that she wished to remove to Paris. Her grand- 
 daughter, she said, had intended to have superintended this 
 'work, and that being now impossible, she did not know 
 whom to trust except myself. She would supply me with 
 money, and Annette for a companion, and such instructions 
 as I should not mistake. I was also to be accompanied by 
 Baptiste, who would attend to all the arrangements of trav- 
 eling. 
 
 I accepted this commission very eagerly. Paris was be- 
 coming oppressive to me on many accounts, and the idea of 
 a long journey, duiing which I should be my- own mistress, 
 besides seeing so much that was new to me, was quite cap- 
 tivating. Preparations were therefore, immediately set on 
 foot, and in less than a week I commenced my journey to 
 Lombardy. 
 
 We trayelled in our own carriage, with post-horses, to 
 which, as to our accommodations at night when we did not 
 
332 marqabst; ob, 
 
 travel through the night, Baptiste attended. I did not count 
 the days, for every day brought some new object of interest 
 before me. The scenery of Switzerland delighted me, and 
 I enjoyed by anticipation the pleasure of exploring an old 
 ch&,teau in one of the provinces of the south. I was in 
 high spirits when we-at length reached this place, a not very 
 sightly building, half in ruins, situated in a soiitai-y but fertile 
 spot, and in sight of the river Aidge. It was a pleasurable 
 excitement to put up with the rude accommodation we 
 found, for there was no appearance of our having been ex- 
 pected. A very old man and his wife had charge of the 
 ch&teau, and besides having nothing to offer us except their 
 own poor fare, there was such a bustle to make the rooms 
 fit for me to enter, that I proffered my own services to help ; 
 and, to her great disgust, called upon Annette to do the 
 same. We were fairly beaten altogether in effecting much 
 on the day of our arrival. There were several rooms fur- 
 nished in a heavy, old-fashioned style, but a century's dust 
 seemed to have settled upon everything, and'it was as much 
 as we could do to make one bed-room habitable for Annette 
 and myself. . Here, however, we slept soundly, and on the 
 following morning I arose with fresh spirit to pursue my 
 task. 
 
 I was struck more than I had been on the previous day 
 with the dilapidation and nakedness of the place. If there 
 was anything valuable, it was as yet out of sight; and it 
 seemed odd that portable valuables should have been left so 
 long in such insecure custody. I, however, did not doubt 
 that all was right, and befofe opening my sealed instructions, 
 I assisted Annette and the two old custodiers of the place 
 in making one of the sitting-rooms habitable.. 
 
 It was a very large apartment, scantily furnished with 
 high-backed chairs, and couches, and marble-topped tables, 
 that we thus attempted to reduce to order. In the midst 
 of our labor, Annette threw herself despairingly into a 
 seat. 
 
 " You surely don't intend to stop long in this place, Made- 
 moiselle Marguerite ?" she said. " Why not look for the' 
 treasures at once, if there are any ; but I don't believe it. 
 My young lady never mentioned such a thing ; never spoks 
 
PEEJUDICB AT HOME. 333 
 
 of coming here ; and I'm sure she would have done if 
 she'd thought about it. You see what there is here ; I be- 
 lieve it's all a trick." 
 
 I was startled ; for I remembered that my removal had 
 been recommended by the priesthood. I cast one blank 
 look round me, and then hastened to my bed-room, and 
 broke open my letter of instructions which Baptiste had car- 
 ried, and which he had only given me that morning. I 
 found it to contain the following sentence, and nothing 
 more : — 
 
 " The treasure I send you to seek is the true faith, which 
 that you may find and value properly is the prayer of your 
 friend, 
 
 "L. DE L." 
 
 I was trapped, then. I could still make nothing of it. I 
 seemed at liberty to run away if I liked, and I was not with- 
 out money. I returned to the room to look for Annette, 
 and she was gone. I descended to the apartment occupied 
 by Bianca and Andrea, and the old man pointed out to me 
 the carriage of the comtesse, rolling away in the distance. 
 I labored under the disadvantage of not understanding the 
 language ot these people, but I knew well enough from their 
 gestures that both Annette and Baptiste had left me. 
 
 I was indignant, but I still did not feel any great alarm, 
 though, when I cast my eyes round the country, I saw no 
 other habitation in sight. Feeling the necessity of collect- 
 ing my thoughts and doing something, I went up stairs 
 again, and sat down and reflected. I had brought every- 
 thing belonging to me with me ; the comptesse had recom- 
 mended this, as she I said should be detained in Lombardy 
 some time. •! saw nothing better for.it than to set out 
 seeking my fortune again with such things as I could carry. 
 I could run faster than either of those two old people, there- 
 fore there was no fear of my being detained. I was about 
 going up to my bed-room, previous to putting this plan in- 
 to execution, when on turning round I was startled by the 
 appearance of M. I'Abbe Roullet. 
 
334 maegarSt ; Oe, 
 
 This man, who was upwards of forty, regarded me with a 
 more than usually bold and repulsive look. 
 
 " You see we are not inclined to give you up. Marguerite," 
 he said ; " by fair means or by foul, you must belong to us. 
 For my part I am quite reaidy to consult your own happi- 
 ness and interest, as I shall prove to you." 
 
 " You are beginning in a singular way,". I said ; separa- 
 ting me from those who might have protected me, dragging 
 me into a strange country by a fraud."^ 
 
 " Oh, merely a pious fraud.V said the abbe. "Mother 
 Church allows a latitude in oases like yours, and you shall 
 flpd me still more indulgent to yourself. You laugh at 
 what you call our m-ummeries — well, you shall laugh on. 
 Marguerite, and I will laugh with you. They are^ mumme- 
 ries ; but he who knows it amongst these people, and who 
 can make his own use of the knowledge, is possessed of a 
 power mighty enough to move nations. You shall partici- 
 pate in- this power. Marguerite ; you have a bold, free spirit ; 
 you were born to rise in the world, and- you shall, rise." 
 
 I had not really feared this man till I heard him thi;^ avow 
 his; contempt of the creed he professed. Eeligionless as I 
 was myself, I could place no trust in any man, a comparative 
 stranger to me, who boasted of his freedom from religious 
 restraint. I shrank more than ever from the abbe's bold 
 and now triumphant look. 
 
 "You have not read me aright," I said. "If I crave for 
 power it is the power of doing good, not of perpetuating 
 evil. Nothing you could say or do, would engage me in 
 this work. I feel ashamed' of my connexion with your church 
 altogether. I here renounce it altogether." 
 
 " Here 1 Do you know where you are — that you are in 
 my power entirely — that you cannot escape «ie ? Margue- 
 ritej listen to me and don't be a fool. You are a brave girl, 
 and I admire you ; upon my soul, I love you as I never 
 loved woman. I wish to share the fortune of my *Mqi 
 with you. Be reasonable, and listen to what I have to 
 
 " Ah, my God !" I exclaimed, recoiling in horror, " you 
 are a mockery, then, altogether, you and your religion — all,- 
 all !" 
 
PEBTODIOB AT HOME. 33S 
 
 " Yes, all if you "will have it so. What is it that appalls 
 you now ? Don't you understand that every cardinal in 
 Italy has a mistress 3 Bah ! why shouldn't they ? I 
 wouldn't change you with any one of them. But mind, I 
 am not used to be thwarted, and this pretty affectation of 
 heroic virtue won't pass with me. Do you know this ?" 
 
 He drew forth my grand-father's pocket Bible, which I 
 imagined to be safe in my trunk. It must have been ab- 
 stracted on the road. I had always congratulated myself 
 on having 'kept it safe from observation, both at the convent 
 and at the hotel de Lammenais ; for, besides the written 
 names of my grand-father and all his family, including my- 
 self, it contained the name of my native city. 
 
 " I first saw this in the convent at Lille," continued the 
 abboi " I abstracted from it the information I needed, and 
 every particular of your birth and connexions was known 
 before you were consigned to your relative, the Comtesse da 
 Lammenais. The Ohurch was in need of spirits at once 
 earnest and bold, and you were originally designed to assist 
 in carrying on the conversions in England. You are awar^ 
 how you turned rusty upon our hands. Well, whilst dis-- 
 comfiting others you captivated me. You must be aware 
 that you can maintain no reputable place in the world 
 where your history is known. Being illegitimate you ai-e 
 an outcast by birth, and the crime of your grand-fether 
 (whether he is guilty or not is no matter) makes you doub- 
 ly so. I like you all the better, Marguerite, for these disad- 
 vantages, which others would use for your condemnation. 
 I will teach you how to trample upon the neck of this 
 world, that would crush you down with its conventionalism^ 
 meaning nothing but the caprice of petty and inglorious 
 power. You shall rule. Marguerite, instead of being ruled ; 
 I will show you in what you may become absolute." 
 
 I had fallen low enough now. If there was anything in 
 me s<^erior to that stigma of birth in spite of it — if I, indeed, 
 possessed a soul and an inheritance apart from this earthly 
 identity with more of evil and degradation than earth could 
 tolerate, this was the time to show it. From that bold, bad 
 man, I f«lt myself driven back- upon God, and I took my 
 
S30 . MASaABBT; OR 
 
 stand as confidently as if I had never doubted or questioned 
 God's power. 
 
 " I have lieard you on compulsion," I said, " and we are 
 so far upon an equality that you are compelled to hear me, 
 I loathe, I detest, I abhor you ! I throw back your insinu- 
 Ipitions and your offers alike with scorn ! You dare to look 
 on me, judging what I am— rspeoul^ting on what I am not ! 
 I am fresher from the hand of God than you are, and I 
 wield a mightier power—* the power of discerning what is 
 iniquitous, and repelling it ! You have my answer, let me 
 
 " Gently !" - said the abb6, putting himself in my way. 
 " You have not heard all that it is essential you should know. 
 In these dominions you are liable to be prpseottted for being 
 found in possession of a Bible. That prosecution means 
 perpetual imprisonment or death. You are even more of 
 an offender than this : you have tried to aid the escape from 
 her vows of a novitiate in the convent at Lille, named 
 ClSmence, by conveying a letter for her ; and Ais crime 
 ^one-makes you liable to a fearful punishment. I hold the 
 fiat in my hands.; I can denounce you at any hour." 
 
 " Denounce, me 1" I said ; " anything will be preferable 
 to being here and near you 1" 
 
 " Oh 1 can you be so scornful, mistress 1" he said, seizing 
 my hands, and grasping them so that I had no power of re- 
 lease. " There !" he continued, flinging them from him, 
 " go to your room, and remember that even in physical 
 power I am your superior !" 
 
 My superior, indeed, in the latter ! I rushed to my room 
 with a new horror upon me. I sought to look my door, 
 but there was no key. Presently I heard some one come 
 to the door and fasten it outside, and I felt that I was a 
 prisoner. 
 
 Then I fell upon my knees, and prayed. I had never 
 contemplated situations in which my own power wouW not 
 help me. I turned to God, because I CQuld no longer rely 
 upon myself, and there was the consciousness in my own 
 soul that abashed and humbled me. I thought of my grand- 
 father in his tribulations, sustained by, his unwavering trust. 
 
FSEJCBICB XT EOWE. 337 
 
 'Biom Aafe I bad fmSbsd hj tke pioHB m^tnsdcms of bbt 
 duldkood aal joUk ! 
 
 Wki^ I WIS ihas paitiallT disv^ to God, I ctai bad a 
 detetwrned rciiaBee spoa mpi^ I I^Dok frost one irf mr 
 boxes a pair of d:sp-paated scinois, aod feid tban m m j 
 dreOk. I thoa^tt £» less of ^^rderi^ Aat naa. in as es- 
 tiawlf,Aaaaf kOG^afifjfiir IB tkk ^aaBer matter 11^ 
 erciy nfiataaoa to be kamaae. It va^ amitiKy tUiig to 
 be kmmmm, aad to battle witk the satzii^ee of eaitb. 
 
 I cxaiBEad ^- wndov.ae otber piisoaeis hare done, bet 
 to as jmnoBB. I eoold Bot erem faveak my ueik ovt of v. 
 for it Toald aot Ofea. I cooU eatertam eo hope of eseap- 
 iag thie v^baeeof vUiek tihe abbe had S'™^ "^^ sKfe 
 eamfiatimg pmofe; ■oliiiag wa? to be eipeeted from bk 
 geaeracitT er sosse of JMs&e, aad enetjfbiag to be iearsd 
 fion tbe bmie fiMms, eres mcH« eeageaial to t'? r>?r:7vr=r, 
 thaK Jaemt. Am so lamA seened to be knos-a to bin, he 
 bad j n o bablj- seen die expaSemej at lemon^ lae oat of 
 &e iea«k of JL de 3eaiee€t. He — tbe kind and the aoUe 
 — vbievB was tse 1 £d he eva Aeam of lae bj ^r or i^;fat ! 
 £d he nns loe ! These t h qt t g hi B woold eomse ^m« ne, 
 ereantihe midst of ^"teniUedi^rss, asd tfaoi^b TkiH?*- 
 tiiat ve eould item be antbi^ lo ea«k other. 
 
 I waE k& to sarii lefieetioBE as I bad darii^ naar hxms. 
 At k i aglh iBydfaerwKsafieaf^aada dark-eoBplexioeedvo- 
 i>aa,of abmttfairtf jeais«f ae^^doedjbri^ii^ mesom-e 
 r^e^aeBt. I was ia Ae sort <rf itate that m^ed aae to 
 appe^ to ahnoEt aajtho^ hfniis^ abort it the impiieBS of 
 baoiaaifT; bat tbr^re vas ^i-n-.-.-'^z n the ^ppeaian^ of 
 tkie woBSZB that kefit me akai. ' had beea a witaese of 
 die qHiitaal danry of those vfao ase res aiOov^d a vii'j 
 MifaMJ"- ia tke «r':TM ; ^e gare m'i iL^ idea of thk ^^-1^=; 
 sabjeetioB, ia die zbsaKs of ererr iadiriu lal desiie, or ^o--^, 
 or eatis&esioa m £&. Her &«:>: vss I>ecs abHaatiEd thaa ilcia.- 
 of a galraaized corp^. H.a' euiBplete ipritaal aisjeeaieas 
 aad wcHldlj iadi&cesee seemed to hare lod^J ap ^» :k;- 
 al&s^ so that taste was Bothia|; to appeal to; aod the seal 
 of aa iaflesibi&T, at oaee pmiiiafc n aad cndl, ~^ ast vpf^k 
 ber dna bps. She was die fivii^ i ieipi c s na l atir e x' a cr^e x 
 eneatiallT i'ea.i. wbieh eanoiaads irfiedieBee to tb» d'ersu 
 
'338 maegarbt; or, 
 
 ■word enjoining hatred of father and mother, brother and' 
 sister, if need be ; pei'fent apathy and passiveness' in the ex- 
 ecution of its decrees. Wjiat I had seen already enabled 
 me thus to comprehend this woman, from whom I had no 
 hope; and driven as I was to God, I still took exceptions to 
 the Christianity that brought forth no better fruits. 
 
 The appearance of this woman led me to believe that I 
 was to remain imprisoned where I was, but I was mistaken. 
 At,a later houj- she returned, and told me in French that 
 M. l'Abh6 lioullette wished to speak to me in the apartment 
 where I had before seen him. I went to him as calmly as 
 I could outwardl^f, with all my fa,culties so intensely on the 
 alert. 
 
 " I hope i see you in a better temper, Marguerite," he 
 said, with a mingled expression of ferocity and gratified 
 nvilice. "It is hard to teach you what is right, but we 
 must try. To-night you will have to take another journey^ 
 therefore prepare yourself. You are going to Vienna, and 
 you must see that though I could detain you here if I liked, 
 I am able to pursue my schemes amid crowds and in open 
 daylight. This is all I have to say to you; and now yoti 
 may go and prepare yourself" 
 
 There was somethiiig particularly insolent in this sum- 
 mons merely to receive an imperative order that might 
 have been conveyed to me in another manner. With all 
 his knowledge of human nature, the abhe was mistaken in 
 supposing that he could subdue me by this means, which 
 only made me the more determined to resist. This prospect 
 of going to Vienna rejoiced me ; I thought that in a crowd- 
 ed city I should" have the chance of' making my situation 
 known, and obtaining redress. For the present, therefore, I 
 could afford to refrain myself; I heard him in silence, and 
 returned, to my room. 
 
 It was late at night — a' beautiful summer night — when 
 the woman oi whom I have spoken, and Andrea, came to 
 fetch my boxes and to summon me down stairs. I found a 
 carriage in the court-yard gf the ch&teau, with two horses 
 and a postillion. The abbe himself helped to mount my 
 boxes, and in helping me into the carriage gaye my hand a 
 
PREJUDIOB AT HOME. S39 
 
 forced and odious squeeze. The woman followed me, and 
 the abb6 seated himself outside. Then we drove off. 
 
 The carriage blinds were down, and when I attempted to 
 raise one of them the woman forbade me in a peremptory tone. 
 I sank into a corner of the carriage, and continued my bit- 
 ter reflections. I would not yet believe that there were any 
 circumstances of life in which courage and resolution might 
 be rendered availless, and I determined to be on the watch 
 for any opportunity .that might occur for effecting my re- 
 lease. But it was yet the dead of the night, and there was 
 blank silence round me. When the sun rose and streamed 
 through the windows we were still hurrying on at a rapid 
 pace. At length the carriage stopped. 
 
 I lifted the blind before my companion could prevent me 
 and looked out. There was a wide, fertile country, and a 
 solitary house, at which we were changing horses. I 
 dashed my hand through the glass of the window and cut it, 
 and screamed aloud. 
 
 " Parbleu ! what have we here 3" said a strange man's 
 voice. 
 
 " Let her alone !" shouted the abbe ; " she is a heretic, 
 one that has been convicted of trying to effect the escape 
 of a nun. I am answerable for conveying her to Vienna." 
 
 " Ah ! that is another matter," said the man, and there 
 was silende again. 
 
 Silence without ; but I wrestled with my companion in 
 the coach, and broke the window again, and called out louder, 
 and asked to .be heard. The abbe opened the coach-door. 
 
 " You had better be quieter here," he said "before I sub- 
 ject you to greater restraint. You see how obstinate this 
 heretic is," he continued, appealing to those outside ; "I 
 shall be glad to get her out of my hands." 
 
 I caught a glimpse of a comely young woman, who 
 seemed to be looking on with much curiosity. I called out 
 to her, and said that the charge against me was false. 
 
 " Holy Virgin !" she exclaimed; "what a wretch! See 
 how she persists in her sin !" 
 
 " You see you will gain nothing by this conduct," said 
 my companion. " Why don't you be quiet ?" The coach- 
 door was at the moment dashed to, and we drove off again. 
 
340 MARGARET; OR, 
 
 I sank back in the carriage, more helplessly than before. 
 I had not taken into my consideration that I was in a land 
 of bigots, who would sanction my cruelty practised upon a 
 heretic ; that I was amongst slaves who dared not, if they 
 would, resist the mandates of the Church. In spite of my 
 bravery, large tears filled my eyes, and rolled unheeded 
 down my cheeks. I began to think more kindly of Eng- 
 land. Oh, I exclaimed, mentally, if I could find myself 
 there once more — there where, at least, I could sufier no 
 oppression like this ! 
 
 We continued to roll on for hours. There were provi- 
 sions in the carriage, which my companion asked me to par- 
 take of ; but I turned away with loathing. I felt myself 
 becoming really ill, and this terrified me more. At length, 
 a sudden backward movement in the carriage, as if it was 
 about to be overthrown, and the report of a pistol, roused me. 
 
 " Don't attempt to parley with me, villain as you are !" 
 exclaimed a voice that I knew well ; " look to yourself, for 
 at my hands you may expect no mercy 1" 
 
 The carriage-door was burst open, and M. de Beausset 
 held out his arms towards me. I sprung forward, and fell 
 into them, and clung to him. Oh, how much I forgot iu 
 that instant of time ! 
 
 " My beloved !" he said, clasping me close to him, ■' fear 
 nothing; I am with you, and your are safe !" 
 
 The second report of a pistol roused me. M. de Beausset 
 staggered. A shot had entered his side and the blood 
 gushed over me. I shrieked and looked round. Jos6 had 
 just wrenched the murderous weapon out of the abb6's 
 hand, and was beating him about the head and shoulders 
 with it. Jean, M. de Beausset's servant, was wrestling with 
 the postillion. I called to them, but before they came M. do 
 Beausset fell. 
 
 I knelt down beside him and tore oflf my shawl, and asked 
 them to bind it round him. This was done, but the blood 
 still flowed freely. 
 
 " Never mind me," said M. de Beausset. " You know 
 what to do, Jean ; — convey Mademoiselle Payne from this 
 spot instantly — drive for your life I" 
 
PBEJUDIOI: AT HOME. 841 
 
 " I will not leave you in this extremity," I said, clasping 
 his hand and bathing it with my tears. " "Where can we 
 get help V 
 
 " That's what I want to know," said Jos6, " Ah, you vil- 
 lain !" he continued, turning to the postillion, "can you 
 stand there and see a gentleman die ? There's a town only 
 a mile 6flF: monsieur must bo driven there at once." 
 
 All this time Jean was lamenting over his master, who 
 vainly commanded him to take charge of me ; the abbS lay 
 upon the ground stunned, and apparently insensible ; and 
 the woman kept her seat in the carriage. 
 
 " You dare to disobey me, Jean ; and you are killing me !" 
 said M. de Beausset. " Will you attend to what I have 
 said ? Jose, look to this — be quick ?" 
 
 Jean seemed paralyzed with grief. 
 
 " Come, mademoiselle," said Jos6, " you are doing mon- 
 sieur no good. Here's a carriage we've brought, and you 
 must get into it." 
 
 " For God's sake. Marguerite 1" said M. de Beausset. — 
 " If they get you to Vienna you are lost 1 Jean, is this 
 your fidelity 1 Jos6, where are you ? Marguerite ! — save, 
 save her !" A sinking paleness overspread his face — he had 
 fainted. 
 
 , I thought he was dead. I, too, became unconscious, and 
 when sense returned I found myself lying on the floor of a 
 carriage, my head resting upon the seat. I was driven 
 along at a rapid rate, and events came back to me painfully, 
 with an agonizing rush, like that of the blood when circula- 
 tion has been been stopped. I still believed that M. de 
 Beausset was dead — that he had died to save me — and I, 
 who might not have been allowed to live /or writhed under 
 the agonized thought of Uving on in the world without 
 him. I could have borne to leave him ; but that he should 
 so leave me ! 
 
 I felt sick unto death ; for, besides the agony of my 
 mind, I had tasted no food since the previous day, and now 
 it was late in another day. I felt revived, however, when 
 the carriage at length stopped to change horses, and Jean 
 appeared at the door and assured me, in answer to my first 
 eager inquiry, that we had not left M. de Beausset for dead; 
 
342 MARQAKEli; OH, 
 
 that Jos6 remainad with him, and that there was hope of 
 his Recovery. He told me I might rest a few minutes, and 
 I entered the small inn before which we were stopping and 
 partook of some refreshment. Then he explained to me 
 that he was provided with a passport, describing me 
 as an English lady traveling to Paris, and that I must an- 
 swer to this description at the frontier town which we were 
 approaching. All went on well, and we traveled day and 
 night. We had entered France, when one day the carriage 
 Stopped, and Luce and one of the gipsy-men came with 
 Jean to the carriage-door. 
 
 " Mademoiselle has been inquired for by a gentleman who 
 is. stopping yonder, with our people," said Luce. "He says 
 she belongs to him, and he is going further to seek her." 
 
 " I have my instructions from master about mademoiselle," 
 said Jean, " and I must obey them. What is to be done ?" 
 
 I questioned Luce and her companion about the appear- 
 ance of the gentleman, and no doubt remained in my mind 
 that it was Uncle Stephen, f hesitated, — not with any 
 thought of avoiding him, who had journeyed so far to 
 seek mo, but I was violently agitated, and when I alighted 
 from the carriage I was compelled to lean upon Luce for 
 support. We were on an open road, surrounded by trees, 
 and nothing more met my view as I looked apprehensively 
 round. 
 
 "lam answerable for mademoiselle's safety," said Jean. 
 " I don't like the look of this : we had better drive on." 
 
 I was asking Luce how far. the encampment of her people 
 was off, when I saw her companion, whom I had not mis- 
 sed, emerging from the trees close beside me. He was ac- 
 companied by another, and — ah ! how did we two meet 1 
 I remember sobbing upon Uncle Stephen's neck, and that he 
 held me with a strong grasp. 
 
 " My poor child !" he said, " you have suffered, and you 
 have made us suffer. Oh, you have wrung our hearts, Mar- 
 garet ! But that is past, and I have good news for you." 
 
 " I dare not ask for news," I said, without lifting my head. 
 
 " You do not deserve to be allowed to ask for anything," 
 said Uncle Stephen. " I will tell you. Aunt Betsy is with 
 G-od, and I and George attended her to the gra^e-r-oot a 
 
PREJUDICE AT HOUS. S43 
 
 pauper grave, Margaret. Your grand-fiitlier is proved to 
 be innocent, and he will retam to England if you and I do 
 not latlier join him where he is." 
 
 I lifted my head now. " Oh, biess Gk)d for him !" I ex- 
 claimed. 
 
 "Amen! bless God for all things!" said Uncle Stephen, 
 lifting his hat reverently. " Tliis is all I shall tell you now ; 
 let me understand how you are situated." 
 
 We had been speaking in English, but I called Jean to 
 us, and iu French gave an account of my rescue by M. de 
 Beausset. Jean corroborated what I said, in his own way, 
 and expressed great anxiety to return tp his master. 
 
 "He must be a good master to inspire such affectionate 
 attaehment as yours," said Uncle Stephen ; " a good man 
 to have performed so meritorious an action. You shall re- 
 turn to him, and bear him my thanks, and an assurance 
 that mademoiselle Margaret is safe and with her friends. — 
 We are two miles distant from the next post town, — you 
 can, perhaps, convey us thither V 
 
 To this Jean gladly consented. My old acqnaintances, 
 the gipsies, had gathered round ns in large numbers ; and 
 as I turned to take leave of them, I briefly acquainted 
 Uncle Stephen with my obligations to Jos6 and the rest. — 
 He toot from his purse, and gave to be distributed amongst 
 tiiem, a quantity of gold and silver, whose amount quite ap- 
 palled me. In his joy at my restoration. Uncle Stephen 
 was indulging in one of the fite of extravagant generosity 
 which his means would not bear. When I held out my 
 hand to Morgotte, who amongst others had been eagerly 
 listeniag to Jean's narrative, she indignantly dashed it aside. 
 
 "You oouJd leave him to die!" she exclaimed; "you 
 that have brought him to this ! He will find, at last, that 
 the despised Egyptian girl loved him best ! I scorn you 
 for this while I rgoioe !" 
 
 Morgotte's love for M. de Beausset, like every human 
 passion that is genuine and fully developed, had a power in 
 it that commanded attention ; if not respect. This out- 
 burst of her feelings made me for an instant quail, and 
 look little in comparison ; but I had to deal with realities 
 
344 marsaret; or 
 
 and wish what I might, and suffer what I might, there was 
 onl3r one certain course for me to pursue 
 
 While it was satisfying to my own love and my gratitude 
 to know that I had forgotten my danger in his, and that I 
 had only left him inyokntarily, I felt that our separation 
 was right, and necessary for the peace of both. Lore hinj 
 more than ever I did, and my anxiety about him was an 
 agony to me ; but I prayed that we might never meet again, 
 and I believed that the sorrow, whose very iatensity served 
 to sustain me, would eventually impart to my character the 
 stability and quiet that wonld better fit me for the battle oi 
 ' Kfe. 
 
 When we arrived at the next town, Uncle Stephen wrote 
 a letter of thanks to M. de Beausset, which he committed to 
 Jean's charge. He also gave to the latter his address in 
 Loudon, and desired to be made acquainted with his mas- 
 ter's situation ; but when he offered money, Jean respectful- 
 ly declined it. He said his instructions had been to convey 
 me to Antwerp, to a Madame Schomberg, a cousin ef M. 
 de Beausset's, who was a married lady and a Protestant, and 
 in whose house I should have found a safe asylum. 
 
 We dismissed Jean with thanks, and did not resume our 
 journey till the next day. As we sat together ia the eve- 
 ning. Uncle Stephen entered farther into the particulars of 
 what had occurred during my absence. His sister was dead, 
 and George had gone oBt to Australia, taking with him young 
 Henry Elliott. 
 
 "George drooped very much after you first left m,'' ^^^<* 
 Uncle Stephen ; " but eventually your example, or the eon- 
 tents of your letter, which the dog would never show me, 
 seemed to rouse him to exertion. Where be is, I have full 
 confidence that he will rise in the world, and feel happier in 
 himself." 
 
 I had asked Uncle Stephen how he contrived to trace 
 me. 
 
 " Thereby hangs a tale," he replied. " You must wait 
 for a full explanation till we arrive in London. Thus much, 
 however, I can tell you. When I was first furnished with 
 the knowledge that you had proceeded to France, I made 
 what haste I could to Calais, where you were remembered 
 
FKEJCDICB AT HOME. 345 
 
 throBgli the circumstance of having lost a pnrse. I was di- 
 rected to a mother Meulen, who gave me a vast deal of in- 
 formation. Through her I was enabled to trace you to 
 Clerons ; thence in company with the gipsies to Mouscron 
 and Lille ; to the convent, and the hdtel de Lammenais. I 
 proceeded instantly to Paris ; but the Comtesse de Lamme- 
 nais declared that you had left her, and that she did not 
 know where you could be found. Then I made inquiries 
 about the country for the gang of gipsies, and met with 
 them yesterday night. They told me that you had been en- 
 trapped away, and that a certain M. de Beausset had gone 
 to your rescue. I had intended to follow in the wake of 
 this M. de Beausset, when I fortunately met with you. Here 
 is material for a marvellous story, and I shall expect you to 
 narrate it to me faithfully." 
 
 And faithfully I did narrate it, entering into my feelings 
 of various kinds ; my inclination to become a Koman Cath- 
 olic till the absurdities of that religion drove me back, be- 
 fore I had been quite revolted by the mockeries and the op- 
 pressions which it sanctions. If I touched lightly on the 
 attachment of M. de Beausset, Uncle Stephen did not seem 
 to require much enlightenment from me upon the subject. 
 
 " Ah, I always feared Geoi^e was not the right individual 
 for you," he said, smiling. " Never mind, it is all ending 
 right. M. de Beausset is a fine, generous-hearted fellow, 
 who seems to act as if he had the fear of God before his 
 eyes. He is, too, I understand, noble in birth, and possessed 
 of some wealth ; minor considerations, yet of importance as 
 the world goes. But I chiefly rejoice, Margaret (by the bye, 
 I ought to have scolded you first, and I am forgetting that) : 
 I chiefly rejoice because you have not been enthralled by the 
 errors of this church, to which you felt an inclination to at- 
 tach youi-self. This has spared another, as well as myself, a 
 large amount of anguish, knowing as we do that in the 
 most important of all matters we have equally neglected you 
 through the past." 
 
 My wonder might have been excited as to who this " oth- 
 er" was. I saw that a great spiritual change had been 
 wrought in Uncle Stephen ; he had become a humble and 
 earnest follower of Christ, and he looked back with horror 
 
 15 
 
343 MARGARET; OR, 
 
 upon the unbelief of his past life. It was easier to tell me 
 all this, than to work in myself the change I yet needed. I 
 did not feel any absorbing interest in the matter ; and, both 
 with respect to myself and him, I was willing to let much 
 Test without further inquiry. The two circumstances that 
 alone made any great impression upon me were the proving 
 of my grand-father's innocence, the' particulars of which I 
 was yet to learn, and Uncle Stephen's wish to go out to 
 Australia. Speaking as he had done of M. de Beausset, 
 seemed to tear open the many wounds of my heart ; and I 
 hoped that, without any necessity for my recurring to the 
 subject, I sBould be able to turn the current of Uncle Ste- 
 phen's thoughts. 
 
 I remained in possession of my own small property, Jean 
 having, in the midst of all the confusion, transferred my 
 boxes to M. de Beausset's carriage. I thought I had a right 
 to keep the small sum supplied to me by the Comtesse de 
 Lammenais, and which had been considerably diminished 
 during my 'journey to- Lombardy. This, with what I had in 
 my box, seemed sufficient to defray the expenses of a pas- 
 sage to Australia, and to Australia all my thoughts now 
 turned. I still retained my horror of either renewing my 
 struggle for existence in England, or remaining a burden 
 upon Uncle Stephen. I, however, reserved what I had to 
 say until we arrived in England, for I did not yet feel my- 
 self safe from the machination of the priests. 
 
PEBJUDICB AT HOME. 347 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 I QUITTED France at the close of the month of Aiignst, 
 and I had been absent from England eleven months. Uncle 
 Stephen traveled post from Dover, and we arrived in London 
 at night. My curiosity was inevitably roused by finding 
 myself in a private dwelling, fui'uished with considerable 
 elegance, though rather with a view to comfort than luxury, 
 aiJtl thfe seeming mistress of which was introduced to mp 
 by the nairie of Mrs. Dehimere. She was not more than 
 thirty-six yfears of age, rriild and pleasant in her manner — 
 to me, even affectionate. 
 
 " Poor child !" she said, drawing me towards her, and 
 kissing me, — " how I rejoice over you I We have had you 
 in our thoughts and' prayers a long time." 
 
 This address puzzled me still moi'e, but I let it pass. I 
 was next introduced to Mr. Delamere, — a quiet, gentlemanly 
 personage, — who received me with the same unpretending 
 kindness. We four took a light supper together, during 
 which we were attended by a man-servant in plain clothes. 
 I, remarked how reveiently Uncle Stephen bowed his head 
 during the grace pronounced by Mr. Delamfere. Shortly af- 
 ter supper the whole household of servants assembled to 
 join in prayer. 
 
 Uncle Stephen first read a portion of the Scripture. He 
 selected that affecting parable of the Prodigal Son, to which 
 my attention had first been seriously drawn by little James 
 Graham. My heart had long been in a stony state with re- 
 gard to- any real religious impression ; but there were asso- 
 ciations that softened it,'as I. listened to Uncle Stephen's im- 
 pressive and fervent delivery of this passage, — of itself 
 
348 mabgabbt; oh, 
 
 God's most touching appeal to bidhots sncb as lie bad lieen 
 — such as I was. Uncle Stephen's conversion seemed re- 
 markable, as he had held Christianity in abhorrence, as well 
 as contempt, throngh a long life. I began to feel curious 
 about the means by which ]t,had been effected, 
 
 Mrs. Delamere showed me to my bed-room, the arrange- 
 ments of which spoke of the same opulence and good taste. 
 I slept heavily, not through any absence of mental pain, for, 
 bear up bravely as I wpvld, and amidst all that I had to be 
 thankful for, there was a sense of sorrow and desolation 
 about me that I could not shake off. When I awtike in the 
 morning, and looked from the window, I saw that I was in an 
 aristocratic part of the town. I was in a mood to be rath- 
 er impatient with mysteries ; I could not endure repose and 
 uncertainty. I needed action, even to keep up my own 
 courage, under the bitter trial I was compelled to go through, 
 come what would. 1 was disappointed when I found that Un- 
 cle Stephen had gone out, merely leaving me a note, in which 
 he promised to acquaint me with everything in the evening. 
 I was received by Mr. and Mrs. Delamere with the same 
 quiet benignity that characterized their demeanor the pre- 
 vious night. When the latter and myself were left togeth- 
 er, she led.me into a large room at the back of the house, 
 that reminded me at once of a dmper's shop and a teady- 
 made linen ware-house. A long table, looking very like a 
 counter, was covered with plain and new garments, of all 
 sorts and sizes ; and partitions round the walls were filled 
 with flannels, prints, and calicoes. 
 
 " I, and a number of other Christian women," said Mrs. 
 Delamere, " employ a portion of our time in making gar- 
 ments for the poor. I expect some of them immediately, 
 and perhaps yon will not mind sitting with us until Mr. 
 Leath's return." 
 
 I could not object to this arrangement, though I had no 
 heart in it. I distrusted these demonstrations of philan- 
 thropy, that were often the e£l«ct of a whim ; oftener of a 
 desire to appear well before the world. I was weary and 
 impatient, too, as I have said ; and it was not in the power 
 of mortal to make a good Christian of me all at once, and 
 enamour me with this work of love, and chain me down to it. 
 
Missing Page 
 
S50 MARGARET ; OR, 
 
 I merely signified my acquiescence in this arrangement, 
 and nothing more was said. Uncle -Stephen left me to my- 
 self for a short time, and I heard many people enter the 
 house. Then he returned to me, and conducted me up 
 stairs. The drawing-room was lighted up, and a large as- 
 semblage of people was collected, including Mr. and Mrs. 
 D'elamere and servants of thehouse. Uncle Stephen led me 
 to a seat behind a chair and table, elevated near the centre 
 of the room. There, with his arms resting, upon the table, 
 and his head bowed as if in prayer, knelt a man plainly 
 dressed, whom I supposed to be the preacher. When all 
 seemed to have arrived, Jie arose and gave out the words 
 of a hymn, which he joined in singing. Then he read a 
 portion of the Scripture, and finally, after another brief in- 
 terval occupied in silent prayer, he arosfe and spoke. I 
 could only see the back of his head ; but his dark hair, and 
 tall, manly figure, showed him to be in the prime of life. He 
 selected for his text the verse from Isaiah : " For a small 
 moment have I forsaken thee, but with great mercies will I 
 gather thee." He spoke extempore ; one hand placed up- 
 on the Bible before him, the other resting in the folds of his 
 coat. His rich, flexible, and powerful voice, was of itself 
 sufficient to arrest attention ; bnt there was evidently an utter- 
 ance beyond this from the spirit and the heart, that ir- 
 resistibly stirred the hearts and spirits of his hearers. I had 
 never heard anything like it before, and my face flushed and 
 paled by turns as he went on. There seemed to be no situa- 
 tion of life that he did not enter into and probe with a master- 
 ly hand, — down, at one moment, into the lowest depths of 
 man's degradation, and apathy, and in^poteHt rebellion ; up, 
 the next, into the heights of God's forbearance, and mercy, 
 and fatherly care. He made me feel for the first time that 
 I was entirely in God's hands — helpless in myself. A stub- 
 born pride made me repress the tears that sprung to my 
 eyes, but others were weeping round me ; and I at length 
 yielded to the impulse, and wept unrestrainedly. Uncle Ste- 
 phen was at my side, weeping too ; and I thought of my 
 grand-father. I passed through the agony that all must 
 feel who are convicted of sin ; and then a holy calm fell up- 
 on my spirit. I was prepared for the concluding words of 
 
PREJUDICE AT HOME. 351 
 
 the preacher, who said, speaking of the conversion of sinners, 
 « This is thy work, O Lord Jesus !" 
 
 Another hymn was sung, and the meeting broke up/ 
 Uncle Stephen led me into a room, where we were ajone. 
 
 " Oh, Uncle Stephen !" I said throwing my arms round 
 his neck ; " I have strayed altogether from the right way. 
 Let us go to my grand-father ; let us imitate him, and we 
 shall be happy !" 
 
 Uncle Stephen returned my embrace with strong emo- 
 tion. " Bless God !" he exclaimed ; " ourjjrayers have been 
 heard ! Yes, darling, we will go to your grand-father if 
 you wish it, but first you have much to learn. Sit down 
 now, and listen to me. I was first converted by thejnan 
 you have just been listening to, who, like me, has been sin- 
 gularly delivered from sin and spiritual darkness by God's 
 mercy. Two months back I heard that a certain personage 
 
 was busy investigating your grand-father's case at . 
 
 He made discoveries, respecting which he wrote to me, and 
 
 he inquired earnestly after you. I Went to him at . I 
 
 first met hito in a poor man's house, where I heard him 
 preach with the same power that he showed to-night ; for 
 this, Margaret, was the man. I was strongly prejudiced 
 against him — strongly foi'tified by my own opinions ; but 
 the strength of prejudice and the pride of human reason came 
 to nothing in his hands. He was God's instrument to make 
 me docile as a child. Since then we have acted in concert. 
 He had learned some particulars, which we searched into, 
 and this was the result. The son of David Mai'ples, a boy 
 twelve years old, had, out of curiosity, hid himself in the 
 room in which the interview betwixt his father and uncle 
 took place. He witnessed it from beginning to end. He 
 averred before the magistrates that the two never approach- 
 ed each other, until his father, in the very moment of an 
 outburst of passion, fell against the fender, displacing in his 
 fall the poker, which fell upon the hearth-rug. Then he 
 saw his uncle run to his father's help, and made his own escape 
 by the side-door by which he had entered. He said he had 
 been ashamed of speaking of this matter, knowing that he 
 had done wrong; but even the conscience of the child 
 would not let him rest after his uncle's condemnation. The 
 
352 
 
 man I speak of — the preacher of to-night, remember — was 
 tjie first to gain intelligence of this evidence, and he had it 
 
 investigated fully. He had some influence at , and he 
 
 made powerful use of it in your grand-father's behalf. He 
 spoke eloquently of the simplicity of his character — of his 
 blameless life, of his earnest and uniform piety. Men's feel- 
 ings may be temporarily worked upon for good as well 
 as evil — they have their manias of righteousness ; and 
 the very singularity in this case occasioned the population 
 of to rise en masse in favor of your grand-father. Af- 
 ter all, it did not rest with these people to do justice. The 
 evidence furnished by young David Marples was communi-' 
 Gated to the Home Secretary, and your grand-father was de- 
 clared to be innocent. The ship that is now going out will 
 bear this news to him. I learned from this same personage 
 of whom we, are speaking, that you had gone to France, and 
 he was earnest in his wish that I should proceed in search 
 of you. It was his own request that you should meet him 
 to-night as you did." 
 
 " But who is he. Uncle Stephen. Ah, I see ! he is sim- 
 ply a Christian, Christianity after all, means doing good." 
 
 " Yes, he is a Christain ; but to you he is something more. 
 Fron^ what you have seen, from what I have told you, can 
 you form no guess at who he is ?" 
 
 I could only look blankly in Uncle Stephen's face. 
 
 " See here, Margaret," he continued ; " this man came to 
 me and said, — ' Brother, I have offended even you ; forgii^e 
 me !' What could I do ? I was myself a convicted sinner 
 before God ; I could not say to another, — ' I am better than 
 thou !' We are not right when we can persist in making a 
 mockery of the Lord's prayer, ' Forgive us, as we forgive.' 
 You understand this, Margaret ?" 
 
 " Yes ; but why do you so urge it to-night, Uncle Ste- 
 phen?" 
 
 " Because he of whom I am speaking fears to meet you, 
 lest you should recoil from him with horror. You must re- 
 member two things, Margaret — that he is penitent, and that 
 he is your father. I have been talking to you about Colo- 
 nel Leigh." 
 
 I attempted to catch Uncle Stephen's arm as I started up, 
 
PREJUDICE AT HOME. 359 
 
 but he stepped Hastily bact, and as he went out and closed 
 the door behind hiin\jwas aware that I was not alone. Colonel 
 Leiglit was standing at a little distance, extending his arms 
 towards me. It was a remnant of the old pride and passion, 
 that at the instant enabled me to bear up as I looked at him. 
 He was wonderfully changed, so that I could hardly have 
 recognized him, face to face as we were, and though the 
 only merely material diflference was that he was paler and 
 closely shaved. It was the inward man that exerted this 
 wonderful power over the outward. The proud, bold, indif- 
 ferent look had departed, and was replaced by a yearning 
 expression of sorrow and humility ; the figure, once erect in 
 its animal power, was supple and yielding, and the hand he 
 held towards me shook. The electrical flre that draws spirit 
 to spirit touched me, and I rushed to him. 
 
 " Ah, I can comprehend this !" I said. " We are equals 
 in the sight of God, and we can forget our mortality and 
 all the differences of earth !" He held me in a close em- 
 brace and kissed my forehead. 
 
 " My poor child !" he said, in a voice broken by emotion ; 
 " it is God that enables you to turn to me thus, for I have 
 not deserved that you should forgive me 1 You mustbear 
 with me now in another way, for I know that ray enormity 
 has been great ; and I love gi'eatly, feeling what has been 
 done for me. Bless you, my child! if I did not know that 
 Providence had watched over you I should now be wretched !" 
 
 He placed me in a seat beside him and took one of my 
 hands in his. 
 
 " The past of our lives has been a blank one to the other, 
 Margaret," he said. " Will you now confide in me, as one 
 anxious only to promote your spiritual and temporal happi'^ 
 ness V 
 
 That was an unfortunate speech ; for, temporally, I felt 
 that he could do nothing for me : I wished to preserve our 
 spiritual relation apart from everything else. I felt that 
 this man, who was so eager to make atonement for his sin, 
 was destined to share with me the punishment of it. 
 
 " Let us not talk of the past," I said ; " it wearies me, 
 even while I feel bold to go on into the future. There ia 
 
3S4 margabkt; ob, 
 
 only one earthly subject upon whicli I can dwell : I wish to 
 go to my grand-father — to leave this place." 
 
 " And me, Margaret ?'' 
 
 " And you. I leave you in God's hands ; I wjll pray for 
 you. Through the future we can never be indiiferent to 
 each other if we keep the faith. Let us rejoice in this, and 
 in everything eke keep silence." 
 
 " You oppress me," he said, with a disturbed look. "You 
 are young, and you have a future in the world, which I 
 would provide for. I had a hope that you would point out 
 to me the way of doing this." 
 
 Here was the retribution. I was protider than this mati, 
 who had formerly fenced himself about with all the pride 
 of earth. That which appeared to him a possibihty was to 
 me a dead blank. In this contention between us, should I 
 be compelled to make him aware of the fact ? 1 remained 
 silent, and he spoke on. 
 
 " I have scarcely a right to inquire, yet I should like to 
 learn from yourself the particulars of your sojourn in France. 
 Will the recital be too painful to you, Margaret ?" 
 
 I replied by narrating all that had happened to me in 
 France. 
 
 " I never," said Colonel Leigh, when I had conluded, 
 "felt the same bold, bad confidence, in myself after your 
 visit. I could not put away from me the thought of your 
 Wandering, forlorn and friendless, in a foreign land. This 
 restless feeling prepared me for what afterwards happened 
 when coming to Mr. Delamere's prayer-meeting, merely out 
 of curiosity, I left the house a changed man. But this M. 
 de Beausset, Margaret, who should have married my cousin ; 
 he evidently loves me : you cannot be indifferent to him ?" 
 
 It struck me as a singularity that Colonel Leigh, himself 
 so recently a man of the world, should seriously dwell iipon 
 the likelihood of M. de Beausset willingly uniting his fate 
 with mine when made acquainted with all the facts of my 
 life ; overlooking the certainty of society's disapprobation 
 and his family's disgust ; overcoming his own prejudices, 
 and stifling, his inborn sense of what was honoraible ; or, 
 worse, Bubjecting himself to a life of after-regret. In our 
 
€>BEJUDICB AT HOME. 355 
 
 several ways we expect too much from otliers, and so become 
 finally intolerant. 
 
 He kad eqwally overlooked myself, and it seemed odd to 
 have to say to him, " I am too proud to marry this M. de 
 Beausset." I was compelled to say something, therefore I 
 acquainted him with my early determinfition never to mar- 
 ry. He rested his face upon his hands as I spoke, and re- 
 mained silent some minutes. 
 
 " You have had the advantage of being educated by two 
 honorable and upright men, Maisgaret," he said, at length, 
 " and you have proved youself to be brave and incorrupti- 
 ble. Do not let this bravery overwhelm me. I have flat- 
 tered myself with the hope of being allowed to contribute to 
 your happiness in the fiiture : do not destroy this hope. I 
 considered myself a poor man three months ago ; but I am 
 rich now with my altered habits and tastes. All that I 
 have is yours, Margaret ; and, as my acknowledged daugh- 
 ter, you will have a position in thfe world. Consider how 
 strong is my wish to make atonement ; how heavily it is in 
 your power to punish me." 
 
 All this distressed me very much, because my own unal- 
 terable resolution, was the sole stay of my life. I was not 
 capable of being drawn from it, and the offer now made was 
 repugnant to me on many accounts. I could only shrink 
 from the idea of remaining in England, and descending to 
 the meanness, of seeking, in chance advantages, a meagre 
 pretence of eligibility to the hand and affections of M. de 
 Beausset. If unworthy of him, as I had been, I would re- 
 main so, and preserve my own self-respect. I turned from 
 Colonel Leigh to my grand-father as decidedly as I should 
 have turned in that direction from the merest stranger. — 
 With all my respect for the Christian I lacked affection for 
 the man. I explained to him, as briefly and inoffensively 
 as possible, my conviction that I could only be happy in 
 the condition in which I was born and educated. If I rose, 
 I must rise of myself. He was considerably depressed by 
 my obstinacy, and afterwards appealed to Uncle Stephen. 
 
 Fortunately, for the ending of this contention, a letter ar- 
 rived from my grand-father. He spoke of enjoying good 
 health, and of having received much kinder treatment than 
 
§56 Margaret; or, 
 
 he could have expected under the circumstances. He ■wrote 
 by another hand, being now totally blind. He commended 
 us to the keeping of God, spoke of his own strong trust, and 
 concluded by saying that if he were free, and as with him, 
 he should have no wish to return to England. 
 
 .This letter, and my determination, decided Uncle Stephen 
 to act promptly. He took a passage for us both on board 
 the vessel that was to convey my grand-father's acquittal, 
 and that sailed in three weeks. 
 
 Colonel Leigh placed in his hands the sum of two thou- 
 sand pounds for my benefit, and this I did not refuse. In 
 the meantime he did all in his power to give me pleasure 
 He began by making Jem (who was still with Uncle Ste- 
 phen, and who had been rejoiced to see me,) his sole and 
 confidential servant. Colonel Leigh and Jem ! There was 
 something wonderful in the power that drew and kept these 
 two together until the death of one of them, and that occa- 
 sioned Jem to say before I left him, that he never got more 
 life out of anybody than he did out of his new master. 
 
 And Colonel Leigh, who now spent the chief part of his 
 income in charities, eagerly entered iiito my surviving in- 
 terest in the unfortunate Susan Lester, and the two children 
 of Mrs. Graham. He accompanied me to the work-house, 
 where I learned that Ellen was dead. Lilly was brought 
 to us, but I did not know her. She had been disfigured by 
 having, as the woman in charge of her said, accidentally 
 got herself on fire. She seemed to me to be quite idiotic. 
 She had no recollection of me, or of anything in the past. 
 Colonel Leigh promised me that he would place her in an 
 asylum for orphans. Of Susan I could gain no intelligence 
 whatever, as she had disappeared from her former place of 
 residence. I learned strange news of Mr. Bontoft. His 
 wife had run ofif with Captain Phipps, and he had become 
 niggardly and morose, and had taken his niece, Mrs. Elliott, 
 -for a housekeeper. We had a letter from "Jean, in which he 
 said that his master was slowly recovering, but that he had 
 not been allowed to see him. He was under the care of his 
 uncle, the Cardinal Caradoni, and Jean feared that some 
 charge was about to be preferred against him by M. I'Abbe 
 Eoullett. Colonel Leigh did me the best possible service by 
 
PREJTIDICK AT HOME. 367 
 
 promising to proceed immediately to Vieima and inquire 
 into these circumstances, and explain the service rendered to 
 myself, and thank M. de Beausset personally, if possible. I 
 entrusted him with a letter for M. de Beausset from myself. 
 
 Upon quitting England finally, I must do it the justice of 
 expressing my belief that nowhere are the precepts of Christ 
 more fully carried out by those imbued with the genuine 
 spirit of Christianity. This is only a poor tribute to the 
 kindness I met at the hands of Mr. and Mrs. Delamore and 
 their friends, and which was constantly and actively exerted 
 for the destitute and unfortunate. This human sympathy 
 in the midst of religious toleration is the true glory of the 
 land. I certainly felt some affection for Colonel Leigh when 
 we parted — perhaps some compunction on his account ; he 
 seemed so depi-essed, so forlorn. I understood from Uncle Ste • 
 phen that the general, who gave him up as a madman, and 
 lady Leigh and her daughters, who considered that he was 
 disgracing the family, and the dean, who protested that his 
 new views and habits were derogatory to the dignity of the 
 Church, were all estranged from him. He was made to pay 
 the penalty of forsaking the world and following Christ, but 
 he was borne up to the end. 
 
 It wanted just three weeks of ray eighteenth birthday 
 when I and Uncle -Stephen took a final leave of our friends 
 and England. I was not free from heart-ache during the 
 voyage, though I did not regret the step I had taken. I 
 was violently, and for ever, wrenching myself away from 
 one whom I loved with my whole soul : I was leaving him 
 in circumstances of danger and of bodily suffering all incur- 
 red on my account. In the midst of this conflict, however, 
 I was aware of the presence of more mental quiet than I 
 had known during the last three years. Young as I was, I 
 had been sobered by experience and suffering ; my faith in 
 God was no longer wavering; and I knew that, unless the 
 heart could brave sorrow, the spirit's courage to perseverein 
 right was availless. I had lost, too, the restless conscious- 
 ness of being impelled irresistibly on by some power supe- 
 rior to my own will, toward what I knew not. I could 
 understand and feel that, in gaining Christ, I had accom- 
 plished the end and object of my being. 
 
358 MARGARET j OE, 
 
 I shall not attempt to describe our meeting with my 
 grand-fathor, nor the effect upon him of the news we 
 brought, farther than to say that the dear, blind old man, 
 was temperate in his joy, as he had been firm and uncom- 
 plaining under wrong And sorrow. We proceeded together 
 from Sydney to Melbourne, where Uncle Stephen learned from 
 a gentleman to whom George had been furnished with a letter 
 of introduction the address of the latter, near two hundred 
 miles 'off, in the heart of Australia Felix. George had seen 
 my grand-father, and had written home by a ship that 
 passed us. 
 
 Leaving me and my grand-father very comfortably set- 
 tled at Melbourne, Uncle Stephen set out alone for George's 
 station, intending to purchase another fai-m for us and him- 
 self. In the course of' two months he and George oame to 
 fetch us. 
 
 I was pleased to see the latter treat me with the frank 
 and brotherly affection that I had formerly told him I should 
 prize, and I'expected no less from him ; for George was a 
 generous and noble-minded man, and it was quite delightful 
 to see how heartily he entered into his new occupations, as 
 if he had really found out the right sphere of action at last. 
 
 I was struck at first sight with the improved looks of both 
 him and my grand-father. The climate seemed to agree 
 marvellously with the latter, who was growing stout. As 
 to young Henry Elliott, he was half wild with exuberance 
 of spirits. I began to feel this effect of the climate myself. 
 The weight upon my heart was lightened ; I began to take a more 
 earnest interest in what was aj'ound me, and I soon found 
 plenty to do. Uncle Stephen had taken a farm, on which 
 we found a very commodious dwelling, situated about five 
 miles from George's. It was wonderful, and of itself a plea- 
 sureable excitement, to s'ee how earnestly thebaic and hearty 
 old man entered into his new pursuits ; clearing his land 
 (for there was much wood about us,) buying, and tending, 
 and selling cattle, as if he had never done anything else all 
 his life. I was his house-keeper, and I soon became learned 
 in the mysteries of kangaroo steaks and cockatoo pies. I 
 had a diavry, which I superintended myself; and I insisted 
 upon having a gard«n^ which was chiefly attended to by 
 
PBEJCDICE AT HOXK. 359 
 
 George and Heniy Elliott during spare hours. Uncle Ste- 
 phen would often laughingly gaj, whibt eulogizing me as 
 the best house-keeper for miles around, that he might have 
 spared himself a deal of trouble, if he had known, years ago, 
 that my only really usefiil acquirements would come natu- 
 rally. My grand-^ther was delighted as a child with ererr- 
 thing, Qiough he could see nothing ; I was restored to him, 
 and his old fiiend was brought into the fold of Christ. Oh, 
 we were very happy, in spite of the old tnrmoil, in spite of 
 my regrets I 
 
 At the expiration of six months from our arriral we re- 
 ceived a large packing-case and a letter from Colonel Leigh. 
 The former was filled with books, the works of sekct authors, 
 and the letter chiefly referred to an interview he had had 
 with M. de Beausset, who was restored to health, and free, 
 and happy to hear of my welfare. This was all he said of 
 him, and I felt a pang resembling disappointment. Had I 
 been hoping something more, after all ? I reproved my 
 own &lly, and roused myselj^ and returned to my ordinary 
 occupations. 
 
 Three more months elapsed, and we went on very cheeri- 
 ly. There was no weariness in this new life of itselC I be- 
 lieve we all had an idea that we were growing younger 
 every day, — at least, that was my impression with regard to 
 myself and others. We had many neighbors within the 
 circuit of a few miles, friendly and intelligent people, whom 
 it was a pleasure to entertain and visit ; and we had fre- 
 quent calls from strangers, who were always welcome ; fre- 
 quent encounters with .the natives, all amicable. Above 
 everything, we were free from the terror of poverty and its 
 consequences — tliat great ineubas of my former life. 
 
 By contrasting my destiny with thousands who, in free 
 aod happy England, were condemned to slavish toil for the 
 preservation of a miserable existence, I grew into a gradual 
 thankfulness for my individual lot What a great help it 
 was to have everybody happy about me ! There was no es- 
 caping the conta^non. I heard of nothincr but progress from 
 day to day, for if any failed in this prosperous country, we 
 were ignorant of the £ict in our remote and thriving settle- 
 ment. 
 
360 Margaret; or 
 
 I was one day -walking about the garden, which, by dint 
 of coaxing and scolding, I had brought Uncle Stephen to 
 attend to in earnest, when our female servant brought me a 
 letter, which she said a strange gentleman, who had just ar- 
 rived, and who was sitting with my grand-father, had de- 
 livered to her. It was in the hand-writing of Colonel Leigh, 
 and I opened it with trepidation, I.^ead thus much of it 
 at the moment : — 
 
 " Mydear Daughter, 
 
 , , " This will be delivered to you by M, de Beausset ; 
 and for my sake, and for the sake of the devotion to your- 
 self that he has proved -so fully, I hope " 
 
 The words swam before my eyes, and the letter shook in 
 my hands. I was not in a much better condition, when, a 
 few minutes afterwards, M. de Beausset himself knelt at my 
 feet. 
 
 Well, it is no use dwelling upon what he said, or what I 
 -■did in consequence. At the moment that I am writing this, 
 a very4,|tur,dy , young Victor de Beausset, five years old, is 
 leading bis blind grand-father about the garden ; a little 
 Emillie de Beausset, who has scarcely numbered three year.s, 
 is feeding a tame' cockatoo on the steps of the verandah, in 
 whose shade I am sitting. Nurse is not far from me, with 
 baby sleeping in her lap while she is knitting. Uncle Ste- 
 phen is seated at a table very close to mine, with a Bible be- 
 fore him, arranging the heads of his to-morrow's discourse ; 
 for to-morrow-is Sunday, dear reader, and Uncle Stephen is 
 our minister. In a large log-shed,'ereoted especially for the 
 pui'pose by M. de Beausset, we must^Ka rather numerous 
 and very " respectable" congregation. 
 
 M. de Beausset is more of a lover than he was before our 
 marriage ; making up, as he says, for lost time. I expect 
 every moment to hear his cheery voice, and meet his bright, 
 jpyous look ; for he has been absent all day, with three of 
 our men, helping George, who is still a bachelor, to recover 
 some strayed cattle. If I had any words that would express 
 the happiness of my present lot, I should write them down 
 here. 
 
PRKJ0DIOE AT HOME. S61 
 
 Colonel Leigh (there are no words, either, to express the 
 loTe I feel for him now) died nine months ago, leaving to 
 me all he was possessed of, after making some charitable 
 bequests. Jem, to whom he left a competence, has, from 
 choice, entered the service of Mr. Delamere. 
 
 K it had been possible for me to believe, that in securing 
 my own happiness and independence I had earned the right 
 of fencing myself about with earthly good, chiefly as a warn- 
 ing against trespass to the nnfortunate and the needy ; if, 
 without believing this, I could do it, and shut out from my 
 thoughts the thousands who are suffering iit many lands, I 
 should not have written this book, the result of my haunting 
 dreams of the past. I owe it' to God's grace first, and next 
 to my own trial, that I have been incapable of forgetting or 
 ceasing to feel for the pri\;ation and oppression that are at 
 this moment crushing down souls and dooming bodies to a 
 lingering and torturing death in the old country. To that 
 countiy I would say, — Instead of teaching, as now, that 
 want of money, and slich position as money only may give, 
 includes the want of moral rectitude, the absence of all that 
 is elevating in thought or feeling, thereby making poverty a 
 mighty engine for the degradation of man, and too hide- 
 ous to be borne ; — let the truer doctrine be promulgated, 
 that wealth, and competence, and worldly rank, fostering as 
 they do a selfish indulgence and a spirit of insolent superi- 
 ority, tend to make men little and feeble, by giving them 
 false views of life : for struggle is the parent of hei-oisms, 
 and the heroic will, in the end, triumph over the indulged 
 and the self-conceited ; and this truth mav be carried to the 
 extent of proving a nation's prosperity to be its great weak- 
 ness instead of its power. 
 
 For the great of this world, the ostentatious, the wealthy, 
 and the comfortable, are not the truly fortunate, and never 
 will be whilst the power of doing good is not universally 
 recognized as the highest privilege of hunlanity; never 
 whilst adversity and trials continue to be God's chief means 
 of drawing souls to Himself. Arid the experience of all 
 time claims for them that have suffered, and through suffer- 
 ing learned to know themselves and understand others, a 
 
362 margakbt; ok, pbejudick at home, 
 
 superiority of mind and will that has won for itself a proud 
 place in the chronicles of earth. 
 
 In conclusion I would say, chiefly to the down-trodden 
 of my own sex, Come to this land ! Come from the sla- 
 very of whatever kind that is a disgrace to others, and a 
 wearing down of life with its energies to yourselves ! Come 
 from the contempt that makes even honest bread bitter to 
 the taste ! Here the educated and the sensitive will not be 
 tried beyond endurance by the meanness and the insolence 
 of power ; here the ignorant will not be debased by the 
 grovelling teachings of conventionalism. If England has 
 sent out to us many imbued oiily with a sordid spirit, of 
 gain, these either hurry back with their gold to the home, 
 where it promises the'm most consideration, or, ^by their 
 reckless ext»avagance and want of intelligence and princi- 
 ple, give fair promise of coming to nothing where they are. 
 We have a nobler population, made up of earnest stragglers 
 for independence ; men and women, who have passed 
 through an ordeal that has purified their dross, and pre- 
 pared them for an earnest pursuit of noble purposes ; plans 
 and views worthy of immortal creatures, whose course here 
 was not meant to be impeded by bans and difficulties that 
 drag down and confine flesh and bone, and every sinew of the 
 spirit, to an inadequate providing for the most sordid of all 
 wants. I glory in the country of my adoption; I have 
 great hope for it in the future that is to come ; and though 
 I think less than nothing of the chance prophecy of Mor- 
 gotte, I believe that a noble empire will arise in this land, 
 whose chief power will be derived from the teachings of 
 men, who, by endurance and struggle, have learned to be 
 -just; and amongst the generations of these will be found 
 the descendants of Thomas Marples and Victor de Beausset. 
 
 THE END. 
 
library' and complete editiok of 
 
 COOPER'S NOVELS. 
 
 This is an entirely New Edition, comprising the whole of 
 the late J. Pekimobb Cooper's oele'orated Tales and Romances, 
 in all thirty-three volumes; carefully printed on superior papSr, 
 enlarged page, with marginal ruled lines. 
 
 Last of the Mohicans, 
 
 Ftoneers, 
 
 Deerslayer, 
 
 Path-Finder, 
 
 Frairie, 
 
 The Oak Openings, 
 
 Wept of Wish-ton- Wish, 
 
 Ned Myers, 
 
 The Spy, 
 
 The Redskins, 
 
 The Filot, 
 
 EMBKACINa 
 
 Homeward Bound, 
 The Chain-Bearer, 
 Afloat and Ashore, 
 Miles Wallingford, 
 Home as Found, 
 The Crater, 
 Two Admirals, 
 Head-man, 
 Satanstoe, 
 Heidenmauer, 
 Water-Witch, 
 
 Mercedes of Castile, 
 
 Jack Tier, 
 
 Wing-and-Wing, 
 
 Bed Bover, 
 
 Monikins, 
 
 The Sea Lions, 
 
 Lionel Lincoln, 
 
 Wyandotte, 
 
 The Bravo, 
 
 Travelling Bachelor, 
 
 Frecantlon. 
 
 Neatly bound in embossed muslin, the set, 33 volmnes, 
 
 Sheep, library style, marble edges, 
 
 Half roan, .... 
 
 Rolf calf, .... 
 
 Salf Turkey, .... 
 
 Balf calf, extra gilt backs. 
 
 $25 00 
 SO GO 
 28 00 
 40 00 
 40 00 
 45 00 
 
 The longer time that shall eUpse after his decease, the more 
 justly win Cooper's genius be appreciated, and in proportion 
 to the justice of the appreciation will be the height of the 
 rank he will occupy. * * » » 
 
 Cooper's Nautical and Forest Novels are as distinct, as 
 original, and as great, in their owA, Hne, as anything of Field- 
 ing, Smollett, or Scott, in his; he will be read, and almost 
 known h^ neart, in America and in Europe, when the idols of 
 the hour are forgotten : he is the most original of American 
 authors, " who fear or falsehood never knew." 
 
Crtic CtfttKt iXmerlcim fipovtlno Uitk. 
 
 FBANK FORESTER'S EIELD SPOUTS 
 
 or tmh 
 
 United States and British Provinces of Nortli Ameriet. 
 
 WITH ICManAVINQB 07 SmiY SriKIIIIII or OAMlt, 
 drAw* hoo) Nnturc, bj Ibt Author. 
 
 BY HENRY W. HEnDERT, ESQ,, 
 
 4ulhw tf " JV|> Sitdhn ZIM," X »< DitrMlluri," " Onnmll," " ilDi ilfmnii rmUw," 
 
 M,t lU,, M, 
 
 Two voli, E)vo. Prica (4, 
 
 HlotlCM of till VtMh 
 Thli la a book wlilch nii veiituro to pradlot tha aiiortiiiniii will 
 harenrtar nwoar l>y. Frank Forenter, brod up tn nil Ilia nicotics of 
 Engllih iihooUni;, in not only n ooholarly niitumllut, liut a priutlonl 
 AmarlcM woodtmnn. Ilia book will glvo thiim aoina Idona In Ifingliind 
 aacli aa tho]r navar biul bolbra, anvo tliaiirallcivlly, of Ilia mmlfblil tnd 
 varied qutilUloa raciulrod by an Amorlann practitioner of tlia gontla art 
 of foUowlni dog and gun.— C. P, Uaffmtn in LUirary tforli, 
 
 Mr. Uorbart li an anthnalaat In tha manly paatlmc on whieli he haa 
 wrlllan. Ho takaa hold of Ilia aulijaol iiol monily aa one Intlmalaly 
 acquainted Willi Ula tliarna, lint like a man whoae heart la In hie work. 
 Bvary man who ellhor haa or Intanda to ahoaUlor a fowllnt piece or rlAe, 
 ahould at once gut bold of thia liialruclor, that be may know how, 
 <vhora, and whan to bag hia t^mer'Aliafii Kvmtng Jinrnal, , 
 
 The work einbodlaa the natural hlatory of the principal game lilrda and 
 animala of thIa region, with aecounta of Ilia aaaaon, manner, and pbieea 
 of taking each reapectlraly, Pralrle-buntlng, foreat-bsntlng, upland, bay, 
 and lowland ihooting are ftilly doaerlbed, na well aa Ibo Ireatmeni of 
 dogs In alckneaa and In health, their training, oaea, &o. To tboae fol- 
 lowing the oxcrelae, we doom Ibla book Imllaponaable,— JV, Y, Trlliim$, 
 
 In material and ezecnilon the work la truly admirable. To the aporlc 
 man It la, of course, of poeullar value, but not to bim alone :— to the 
 nalnrallal and general reader It la AiU of Inlerest, afli^rdlng accnrate In- 
 formation ooncorning tl>e habits of the elk, mnoae, blaon, doer, and also 
 of all the gamo birds of tho North American Oonllnent.— Siwl/isrn Lite- 
 rarf OattUt, 
 
 Mr. Ifefbert la a terse, sharp writor, goea right to the point, tella things 
 tn a plain way, and yet glo#i with all the faellnga of a true sportanan, 
 In his recital of the pleaauriis of shooting.— W, Louii RnnUli, 
 
 lie goea Ihrougli the whole eatalogua of game, describes the eharaeter, 
 liannts, and pacullarltloa of each ; aasuinns the tone of a companion and 
 instrielor, and In a hundred ways, keens (ha render upon the aeont as 
 kee^-f as the best trained setler.-«>Y, Y, Ctwritr. 
 
FRANK FORESTER'S 
 
 FISH AND FISHING 
 
 or TUB 
 
 CNITED STATES AND BRITISH FROHNCES. 
 
 nLUSTBATKD VUOK KATURB: BY THK AUTHOB, 
 with S«Ttn^-fiT« biKhlV'flniailMd £ngi»Tiati. 
 
 BY HENRY W. HERBERT, ESQ., 
 
 Anther ^ " ^Uld Spffrti," " Mr BhaaUmg Hon," " TIu J)m -SKZtw-*," 4a, 
 
 One Tol., handioraely bound Ja cloth. Frlc» 93 50. 
 
 Thli is roally an oleeant, u well an charming nnd Interesting work. 
 The publlsheriiiuvo evulentljr taken pride In preparlnffa book on Amn- 
 rican fifth and flffhing, and have spared no expense on tnelr part, to make 
 the work all that It ought to be. We know of no book on American 
 flHhes and fishing, eauai to It In value and Interest, alike to the sportK- 
 man and the naturalist.— Comnuircia^ Mdvertieer. 
 
 This Is a continuation of the " Field Sports," by the same author, 
 nubllMbod Home time iilnce, and which wa4 no much commended, both 
 In Enifland and America. Of a style of literature which has always 
 been popular, it Is calculated to rank by the side of " Old Izaak," and 
 Sir Humphrey Davy's "Salmonla." The dBHignu, If we mistake not,^ 
 from which the engravings are made, nre by Mr, Herbert hlrnself— a 
 passionate lover of the sport, and therefore both accurate and beautiful," 
 — J*r. Y. Ezpreea. 
 
 This Is ft hoautlfully printed book, and ornamented with superb 
 engrftvinjgs of the most popular flsh, which look Inncicmsenoogb to make 
 one fonn of the piscatory art, Herbert writes like an cnthuHluHtic 
 dl'^clpla of old Izaak Walton— and this work will enlianee his alreaily 
 brilliant reputation. All who are fond of the sport should procure 
 copies."— JV*. 0. Delta. 
 
 It Is very f^ll in Its descriptions pf the various fish known to our 
 waters, and contains a great number of cuts by way of illustrations. It 
 is one of the most elegant books of the aeason, anu must be especially 
 welcome to naturalists and sportsmen."— C^uner antL Enquirer. 
 
 SUPPLEMENT TO FISH AND FISHING. 
 
 Frlce 79 cenU. 
 JSmbcIUafjtIi biti a &tiiutituni!>tngiaiieti ^late tt CaloRt Jlits. 
 
 Tho Snpploraentary Volume to this TftliidMe work, Jmt inibll.hed, 
 contalni a lart^e Hlnount of practtcnl Information for the angler, with an 
 engriiTed pinto of Files, honutlfally colored, containing iTlreetlons for 
 inaklni! artlflclnl Files, Fly Plshlnu, Tmlllng, fcc., thus rendering Frank 
 Foreaier'i work on Fish and Fishing the most valuable book eitant. 
 Handsomely bound In cloth, uniform wUh the other works. 
 
 This book, with that to which It Is an indispensable npiwndlx, nut be 
 the " vadt mecum " of the (ilncatorlal sportsman, on the trip he is Just 
 now mudluulng to Hamilton County, or farther or nearer afield. The 
 IVontlsplcce to the suppleniisnt presents twenty-four varieties of ulUlelal 
 nios, colored according to nature, and lucidly described in the b«i]r of 
 the book.— ,/V. ¥, Eiiireta. 
 
HISTORY 
 
 OF THE 
 
 FRENCH PROTESTANT REFUGEES, 
 
 JFrant't^e Ee6otatinn »J tfie lEtiict oJ Wantcs to i||t ^xtimt Baa. 
 BY CHARLES WEISS, 
 
 Profeseor of History in the Bonaparte Lycenm, Paris. 
 
 Translated from the French by Henry William Herbert, Esq.. With an 
 Appendix, from the pen of an eminent American Historian and Statesmanj 
 giving a full and complete history of- the French Protestant Refugees in the 
 United States, their effect upon the country and its history, the characteristica 
 of their descendants, their influence upon the formation of our present nation- 
 al institutions, their names, localities, histories, &c., &c. Illustrated with an 
 accurate portrait on ste^ of the cruel and intolerant Pope Pius T., and a fao 
 eimilie of the memorable medal struck by that celebrated pontiff, Gregory 
 XIH.,m/uwwwof the participants in the ftightful Massacre of St, Bartholomew. 
 
 Two Vols., 12mo, Assorted Cloth. 
 Price, $2,50. 
 
 Tlie Publishers invite the attention ofthe morjl and religious world to tliie tlie moat remnrk- 
 abte work that has ever appeared in our language. A true, authentic, and_ d^ply solemn His- 
 tory, every page yet blazes with a stern, vigorous, liery and almost indescribable interest never 
 yet approached id the page ofthe wildest and dreamiest romance. It is only once m a cen- 
 tury- that a work of such vast power and extraordinary interest as this makes its appearance ; 
 and wnBN it appears, it is an event which makes its mark upon the times ; it tnkes a leading 
 place thenceforth in the memories of men, as well as in the enduring tablets of History. 
 
 The work has just appeared in Paris, where it has created a sensation which is without a par- 
 allel in French literature. It was ushered before the French public with the special sanction 
 ofthe celebrated biBtoriana, i)*Aubigne, Gui-/.ot, aud Mignet, and its publication bdstainbd by 
 the united energies, of the leading Protestant minds of France, in spite of the concentrated 
 efforts of the Popish priesthood to suppress it. It is now presented to the A.merican public 
 with the proud aatisfactiou on the part of its American editors and pubhshers, that here, no 
 priestly interdict shall prevent its stirriag pages from reaching the hands and eyes of tqb Peofi.b. 
 
 EXTRACTS FROM BLACKWOOD's MAGAZINE. 
 
 " Profoundly versed in history, himself a zealous Protestant, Mr. Weiss has devoted 
 
 many years of labor anJ research to the production of these two volumes— ^^Th is work is 
 not of an ephemeral class. It is a valuable additieu to the political and religious history of an 
 important period, and as such it will be prized by future bistorianB, Originally undertaken at 
 the instigation of the most distinguished of living French Protestants, Frangois Guizot, and 
 followed, in ita progress through many years of labor, witft unceasing interest,,Dy the brilliant 
 historian Mignet, itfi aultior had also the benefit of the counsels and encouragement of other 
 eminent members ofthe French Academy., The book Rddresses itself not only to the historical* 
 student, hut to ail persons of cultivated mind who take an interest in the progress and develop- 
 ment of the human intellact and of tbob Christianity — and to Protestants it is particularly at- 
 tractive. It \riU be eagerly read and discussed, not only in France, but in Germany, and in 
 this country," 
 
 To be had of all booksellers, and of 
 
 STRINGER & TOWXSEND, Publishers, 
 
 222 Broadway, (under the Museum,) ST. Y, 
 
ENGLISH SOLDIER 
 
 in' the 
 UNITED STATES ABMY, 
 
 AND HIS ADVENTUEIH IN MEXICO. 
 
 Illustrated by tmo Mne Engravings, bound in Embossed Cloth, 
 Price One Dollar. 
 
 OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 
 
 "It ia abetter account of the men that achieved those victories which gave 
 an American renown to the Mexican War, than any book that we have yet 
 read, and we have gone through a few volumes on that subject. We have be- 
 fore us at the present time manuscript- journals by two soldiers, and in tone 
 and narration they correspond with many of the opinions expressed by the 
 author of the hook before us."— i>fli?'Oii DcuU^ Admwti^&t'. - 
 
 " This is a delightfiil work, and excites the interest of the reader from the 
 first page to the last."— iZ«£Zso?i (Jf. y.) FremicMb. 
 
 " It is a better and truer description of the Mexican War as it actually wsffllfc 
 (aside from the official dispatches) than has yet been wi'itten."— iocXipOT^ 
 {If. F.) JownwZ. 
 
 " We have seldom been so much interested in the perusal of any work de- 
 tailing the Incidents of a soldier's life. Gen. Shields once remai'ked on the 
 floor of the Senate, that no worthy history of the Mexican War had yet been 
 written ; and so far as the bravery and hardships of the private soldiers are 
 concerned, this remark might have been true to the end of time, had not this 
 book made its appearance."— ^^ffictrntiWa ( Fa.) Age. 
 
 " This is indeed an Interesting work, It is the picture of a soldier's life as 
 it really is. It shows the reader what the common soldier endures, what he 
 suffers, how httle his sufferings are heeded, or his wishes attended to, and in 
 fact gives the story of a private who has seen service, and it reads very dif- 
 ferently from an official bulletin. Those who recollect the charm that was 
 thrown around the life of the common sailor by Dana, in his 'Two Tears Be- 
 fore the Mast,' will find the counterpart to that atrractive work in these few 
 chapters in the life of a common soldier."— iZVoj/ Budget. 
 
 " A veritable and worthy history of the Mexican War has been much 
 needed, and we have, in this volume a direct, straightfoi-ward narrative, 
 which carries conviction of- its fidelity on its face. The narrative is a very 
 interesting one, written in a fresh, genial style, which makes one sorry to get 
 to the end of the volume."— ^e«) B^ord CMass.) Mercury. ^ 
 
 " The style is easy, natural, and expressive ; and the regular succession of 
 Incidents keeps the attention constantly engaged. The work is well adapted 
 for general perusal, and will be deservedly popular."— yofOTife Mirror. 
 
 " It is on many accounts a most extraordinary work. The work is written 
 in a clear and simple style, giving evident proof in every page of its authen- 
 ticity."— .Zlfow^ea* Com. AoAy&rmser, 
 
 For sale by all booksellers. 
 
 STEINGER & TOWNSEND, Publishers, 
 
 Ko. 222 BEOADWAT. 
 
SK 'vv" 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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