The Wayward Muse Read Online Free PDF Page A

beat wildly. She did not allow herself to hope that it could be Rossetti. She looked at Bessie in a panic, hoping she would see her alarm and answer it, but Bessie was very nearsighted and her lap was full of mending. She made no move to get up. Mrs. Burden looked at Jane.
    “You expecting a guest?” she asked.
    Jane shook her head.
    “Must be someone selling something. Not a very smart salesperson, to come here. I’ll get rid of them. Knowing you, you’d feel sorry for him and take out every penny of the egg money for his books or his shoe polish or his cutlery.” With a groan Mrs. Burden rose and went to the door.
    “Pardon me,” said a voice Jane thought she recognized. “Might I speak with Mrs. Burden?”
    Jane leaped from her seat and went to the door, but Mrs. Burden was blocking it with her body. Over her mother’s shoulder Jane could see Burne-Jones, looking gangly and uncomfortable.
    “I’m Mrs. Burden,” her mother said, keeping the door open just a crack. “What’s this about?”
    “It’s about your daughter Jane,” he said, giving Jane, or at least the part of her that was not blocked by Mrs. Burden, a small smile. Mrs. Burden’s tone became belligerent.
    “Are you the Italian? She’s not a prostitute, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Mrs. Burden said. “She may be ugly, she may be the laziest girl in Oxford, and the most disrespectful, but she won’t sell herself for money, not while I have anything to say about it.”
    Burne-Jones blushed. His expression was pained, and even Mrs. Burden could tell that she had greatly embarrassed him.
    “No, Mrs. Burden, I’m not”—he choked on the words a little—“the Italian. I’m Edward Burne-Jones, lately of Oxford. I had the pleasure of making Miss Burden’s acquaintance at the theater the other night, along with my friend Mr. Rossetti.”
    “Rossetti!” shrieked Mrs. Burden. “I don’t want to hear any more about him. Treacherous people, the Italians.”
    “Mr. Rossetti is as English as you or I,” said Burne-Jones emphatically. “He was born and has lived his whole life in London, where his father is a respected professor of languages.”
    “I don’t care who his father is. It’s obvious he’s a libertine and a rogue. You look well enough, but the fact that you’re associating with him and conversing with my daughter without an introduction—well, I’d say your morals are suspect as well.”
    Burne-Jones withstood this quietly.
    “If you speak with a Professor Lowell at the college, you will find that Mr. Rossetti and I are exactly whom we purport to be: artists from London who are in Oxford to paint the Debating Hall.”
    “If you are an artist, you must be a bad one, to want to paint her,” said Mrs. Burden, echoing Jane’s thoughts of the night before. She jerked her shoulder back toward Jane. “I never saw an uglier girl.”
    Burne-Jones was too polite to contradict her directly. “Nevertheless,” he said. Then he brought out his best argument. He pulled several shillings out of his pocket and handed them to Jane’s mother. “This is how much she’ll make for a day of sitting. I’ll see to it that she’s paid at the end of every day, if you let her come.”
    Mrs. Burden seized the money and Jane knew Burne-Jones was about to triumph. “Are you sure it’s Jane you want?” said Mrs. Burden curiously after she had counted the coins carefully and put them in her pocket. “Are you sure it’s not Bessie?”
    “Mr. Rossetti was quite clear,” Burne-Jones said.
    “Well, there’s no accounting for taste,” said Mrs. Burden. She opened the door all the way and allowed him to come in.
    There were particulars to be worked out. “She can only come two days a week,” said Mrs. Burden. “I can’t spare her more than that. And her brother will come pick her up. There’ll be no standing around and flirting. I know about artists. My uncle was a sign painter. You can’t imagine how many women he