L I B R.AR.Y 
 
 OF THL 
 
 U N IVER.SITY 
 
 Of ILLINOIS 
 
 8^3 
 
 V.I
 
 MCli Lo»t Book is $50.00. 
 
 on or before the Latest Date stamped below. 
 
 DEC f\ 6 1966 
 MAR 09 P^^ 
 
 L161— O-1096
 
 A FAMILY HISTOEY. 
 
 THE AUTHOR OF 
 
 THE QUEEN'S PARDON." 
 
 " For his rule over his family, and for his conduct to wife and children — subjects 
 over whom his power is monarchical any one who watches the world must think with 
 trembling sometimes of the account he will liave to render. For in our society there 
 is no law to control the King of the Fireside. He is master of property, happiness — 
 life almost. He is free to punish, to make happy or unhappy, to ruin or to torture." 
 
 " When the annals of each little reign are shewn to the Supreme Master under 
 ■whom men hold sovereignty, histories will be laid bare of household tyrants as cruel as 
 Amurath, as savage as Nero, and as reckless and dissolute as Charles." 
 
 Thackeray's " Esmond." 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. L 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 HURST AND BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS, 
 
 SUCCESSORS TO HKN'RV COLIUKX, 
 
 13, GREAT MAKLHOKOUGH STKKET. 
 
 186L 
 
 The right of Trandation is reserved.
 
 LONDON: 
 
 printed by r. born, gloucester street, 
 regent's park
 
 8^^ 
 
 V. 1 
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Individuals exist in the world who, having 
 parents, brothers, and sisters, yet seem without 
 kin ; mere waifs and strays cast up by the 
 ocean of life, whom no one cares to own or 
 claim. Such a one was I. 
 
 Yet now that life draws near its close, I would 
 not have exchanged the lot appointed me for 
 any other. If my morning was dark, cold, and 
 dreary, like many such dawns, it heralded a 
 noonday of clear, calm, temperate sunshine, 
 overcast by no clouds, darkened by no thunder- 
 storms, and I trust that like such days it will 
 also end in peace. 
 
 My first recollection is of the advent of a 
 baby brother, and of playing about in my mo- 
 
 VOL. I. B 
 
 <3\=>
 
 Z A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 ther's sick room. I believe I was noisy and 
 unquiet — what healthy child of two years old is 
 otherwise ? Not the little one who trots about 
 this house, playing her tricks of childish mischief, 
 and chattering from morning till night, reproved 
 rather by kisses and caresses than harsh words, 
 and growing up in an atmosphere of love. 
 
 But 1 was pronounced a playing, tiresome child, 
 and I was sent from home to the house of my 
 bachelor uncle. He spoiled me to my heart's 
 content, if tenderness and indulgence, which 
 exercise a softening influence over the character 
 for life, can be called spoiling. My parents said 
 it was, and accordingly took me home in less 
 than two years. I had been but a very short 
 time at home, when my aunt Joan came to our 
 house on a visit. She decided that my parents 
 mismanaged me, and desired that I might be 
 given up to her. She could not take me with 
 her when she departed, for she had a round of 
 other visits to pay. I\Iy father and I were to 
 follow her to Lonsdale. 
 
 I was very happy on this journey. I liked to 
 look out of the stage-coach windows, and see the 
 houses and fields and hedges all running along, 
 while we sat still. My father told me I was 
 mistaken, that it was we who were moving, 
 while the fields and hedges remained in their 
 places ; but I found it very difficult to believe 
 him.
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 3 
 
 Then, when evening began to close in, and 
 the light faded, and everything became hazy 
 and indistinct, and my eyes grew heavy, papa 
 took me on his knee more kindly and caressingly 
 than usual, and let me nestle my weary little 
 head against him, and fall fast asleep. 
 
 The rattling of the coach-wheels over a stone 
 pavement woke me up, to see streets of tall 
 houses that seemed to have no end, the glare 
 and glitter of innumerable lamps ; to hear a 
 confused noise of carts, and carriages, and 
 voices, and the tramp of thousands of feet. 
 We were in London. The coach stopped ; my 
 father lifted me out, carried me into a house, 
 and consigned me to a woman he called 
 *^ chamber-maid," by whom I Avas undressed and 
 put to bed. 
 
 When I awoke next morning and saw the 
 dark moreen curtains, instead of the nice little 
 white bed in which I slept at home with my 
 brother, and the room full of what I thought 
 smoke — but know now must have been a Lon- 
 don fog — through which the posts of the huge 
 bed, and the tables and chairs, all loomed dim 
 and indistinct, and put out my hand to feel for 
 my brother, and found he was not there, a 
 feeling of strangeness and desolation came over 
 me, and I began to cry bitterly. My sobs 
 wakened my father, who was sleeping beside 
 me, but whom in the murky atmosphere I had 
 
 B 2
 
 4 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 not recognized, and rather believe I had taken 
 for one of the wicked giants who figured in the 
 fairy tales my uncle Charles had been used to 
 tell me. 
 
 " What's the matter, Elizabeth ? " 
 
 The well-known voice re-assured me. Then 
 came a new fear ; he would whip me for crying, 
 and I could not stop all at once. 
 
 '' What's the matter, little one ? " 
 
 The voice sounded so unusually kind, that I 
 found heart to say, '^ I want to go home, and 
 I want my brother." 
 
 *^ But you know Elizabeth and papa are 
 taking a journey together. You liked going 
 in the coach yesterday, and you are going in 
 the coach again to-day after breakfast ; but now 
 we must get up," said my father, looking at his 
 watch. 
 
 When he was partly dressed he rang for the 
 chambermaid, and ordered her to wash and dress 
 me, and then bring me downstairs to breakfast 
 with him. I felt rather afraid as she carried 
 me out of the room, but the thought that I was 
 to breakfast with papa, and have a ride in the 
 coach afterwards, somewhat comforted me. The 
 woman had a pleasant voice and smile, and 
 handled me gently, and I was soon chattering 
 to her as if she had been my own nurse. 
 
 We entered the coach again, and about mid- 
 day reached Lonsdale. I had three aunts, my
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 5 
 
 father's maiden sisters, Mrs. Diana Neville, Mrs. 
 Theodosia Neville, and my aunt Joan, who was 
 called Miss Neville. The two elder ones were 
 nearly thirty-five years older than my father. 
 He and his sister Joan were the offspring of a 
 second marriage, and were, I suppose, young in 
 reality, though I thought them venerable, but 
 my aunts Diana and Theodosia were already 
 old women. The last named was at this time 
 absent from home. 
 
 I felt frightened and cowed as I walked, 
 holding my fither's hand, into the large prim, 
 formal-looking room in which they sat. I was 
 too young then to know what gave it that 
 cheerless aspect — I only felt it was a dreary- 
 place. Shyly and timidly I raised my eyes. 
 Unfortunately I was near-sighted — I could not 
 see anything without staring at it long and 
 earnestly : this habit gave my aunts the im- 
 pression that I was bold and forward. 
 
 There was nothing to reassure me in the 
 countenance of my relatives. My eldest aunt 
 had marked aquiline features, a rigid erect 
 form, and there was something eerie in the 
 proud glance of her light grey eye. I clung 
 closer to my father, and looked at my aunt 
 Joan. I had, it is true, seen her before, but 
 only for half an hour or so at a time, and 
 thought no more about her than any other 
 chance visitor ; but now I was come here to stay.
 
 6 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 and I longed to see a pretty face. A child's idea 
 of beauty does not consist in features — I knew 
 a very plain woman whom I, and every child 
 that approached her, thought beautiful, she 
 looked so kind and loving. My aunt Joan's 
 features were more irregular and harsher than 
 my aunt Diana's, and she had an habitual smile, 
 and an artificial softness in her voice, that ex- 
 pressed a hollow, cold, artificial nature. One 
 looked cross, but that was all ; the other inspired 
 me with strange distrust and terror. 
 
 Each of them received us after her own 
 fashion. 
 
 ** So, Eobert," said the eldest, " I hear there's 
 another brat born. I can't think what you mean 
 to do with so many children : and then you come 
 here plaguing me with this one. Come here, 
 miss, and let me look at you ! I hear you are a 
 very naughty child at home. I never allow 
 children to be naughty — I whip them till they 
 are good." And the stern old woman pulled off 
 her spectacles, laid them down on the table, and 
 peered long -and curiously with her fierce grey 
 eyes into my face. 
 
 " And so, I suppose you think her pretty, 
 Robert?" said she, at length. " She's just what 
 her mother was, a mere pink and white wax doll. 
 There, child — there's a cake for you — go and sit 
 down on that hassock by the fire, and eat it, and 
 don't make crumbs on my carpet."
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 7 
 
 " Robert," said the second, taking my father's 
 hands, *' I am so rejoiced to see you, my dear 
 brother, and your sweet child. I assure you we 
 will take great care of her. You will be very 
 happy here, won't you ? " she added, turning to 
 me, as I sat munching my cake. 
 
 Tears came into my eyes. My little heart said 
 loudly " JVo I " so / said nothing. 
 
 '^ Come here, Elizabeth," said my aunt Joan, 
 " little girls should not be sulky ; come here and 
 answer my question, and don't look so cross. 
 Don't you think you will be very happy 
 here?" 
 
 Still I held my tongue. My father in a stern 
 voice ordered me to answer directly. 
 
 ^^ Oh ! I want to go home, I want to go 
 home ! '' cried I, bursting into a violent fit of 
 tears. 
 
 ^' Now, that is being naughty, Elizabeth," said 
 my aunt Joan in her soft falsetto voice ; "we 
 tell you we shall be very kind to you, and ask 
 you if you will not be very happy with us here, 
 and instead of answering you begin to cry, and 
 say you want to go home. I do not wonder your 
 mamma does not love you, if this is the way you 
 behave to her; nobody can love naughty children. 
 Do you think your papa and mamma can love 
 you ? " 
 
 " No ! " I sobbed. " No ! I know nobody loves 
 me, and I wish I was dead ; 1 wished so the day
 
 8 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 before yesterday when they sent me to sit on 
 the box in the spare room, because I would not 
 say I was sorry to leave mamma. Oh ! I wish I 
 was dead ! " 
 
 " You wicked little girl," said the elder lady, 
 putting on her spectacles and looking at me 
 through them with her sternest glance. But I 
 saw it not — bewildered, frightened, and over- 
 powered, I had burst into a paroxysm of tears 
 bordering upon convulsion. 
 
 Miss Neville rang the bell ; the butler an- 
 swered it. ** Send Liston here!'' Liston came, 
 and she directed her, in her sweetest tones, ^^ to 
 put that naughty child to bed." 
 
 My father stayed some time at Lonsdale, and 
 his presence was a comfort to me, although he 
 invariably concurred with my aunts in every 
 reproof they administered, every chastisement 
 they inflicted ; for he was something known and 
 familiar. But one moining I went down stairs 
 to breakfast as usual, and found his place vacant. 
 Already I had learnt that crying was considered 
 naughty, so I suppressed the tears that were 
 ready to flow, and began slowly, and half- 
 choking, to eat my breakfast in silence. ^ 
 
 My aunt Joan waited some time, and finding 
 I said nothing, burst out — 
 
 *' I always said it — that child has no more 
 feeling than a stone ! " 
 
 " Children's feelings are seldom deep. They
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY 9 
 
 cannot comprehend anything beyond the present 
 moment, and Elizabeth probably expects to see 
 Eobert come in, just as if he had been out for a 
 walk.'' 
 
 *^ Nonsense ! Don't tell me that," said the 
 low dulcet voice. *^ She was two days travel- 
 ling herself, and she is old enough to remem- 
 ber it. She knows well enough her father is 
 gone, but she does not care. She has no 
 heart." 
 
 / had a heai^t — every pulse of which was 
 throbbing at this unjust accusation. I had felt 
 so sad, so desolate, when I entered the room and 
 saw my father's place empty — and I had tried 
 so hard to be good, and not to cry — and now I 
 was called heartless for not crying. I buried my 
 face in my basin of bread and milk, but the 
 rising sobs prevented my swallowing ; I choked, 
 spluttered, let the basin fall from my hands, 
 and, overwhelmed with misery, and aghast for 
 the consequences, as it rolled down, spilling 
 all the contents on my aunt Diana's precious 
 carpet, I burst into a fit of uncontrollable weep- 
 ing. 
 
 *^ There, child, I know you didn't mean it," 
 said she, patting my head ; and she stooped down 
 to wipe up the slop with her pocket-handkerchief, 
 and collect the broken pieces of china. Then 
 ringing the bell, she said calmly, ^' Give this 
 handkerchief to Liston, John, and tell her to
 
 10 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 bring me a clean one ; and do you bring in a 
 cup and saucer for Miss Elizabeth, for I know 
 there is no more milk, so she must be made a 
 woman of, and have tea this morning : and 
 after that bring a clean cloth and a bowl of cold 
 water, and rinse the place well, and there will 
 be no mark on the carpet. There, child, hush 
 now, don't cry," and once more she patted my 
 head. 
 
 I felt almost as if a lioness had given me a 
 pat, and yet I knew she meant kindly. I could 
 not divest myself of the fear with which she 
 inspired me, or I should have loved her, stern 
 as she was, far better than my smooth-voiced, 
 smooth-faced Aunt Joan. 
 
 Oh, parents ! parents ! beg with your children 
 — starve with them, if need he — but don't give 
 them over to others, and especially to your single 
 sisters ! 
 
 By parents children are received as pledges of 
 love — precious gifts from God himself ; but by 
 the aunt as a heavy burden, laid on her pro- 
 bably when her health and spu'its are gone, and 
 her temper is cankered by disappointment. She 
 wants the indulgence, the tender sympathy, 
 necessary to rear the minds and hearts of the 
 young to their full stature. 
 
 My childhood was dreary beyond expression. 
 It would have been drearier, but for my aunt 
 Theodosia, who, when permitted, used to take
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 11 
 
 me out walking with her, and buy me many a 
 little gift suited to a child's taste. But she 
 was almost as much a cipher in the family as I 
 was. She had neither the vigorous understand- 
 ing and quickness of perception which charac- 
 terized my aunt Diana, nor the learning of my 
 aunt Joan, who studied algebra, mathematics, 
 hydrostatics, and I know not what ; besides 
 understanding most modern languages. 
 
 Unfortunately for me, she thought she had 
 also a particular talent for education, and took 
 me under her own peculiar care, allowing no one 
 to interfere in her management of me. I be- 
 lieve no one wished to do so. The wdiole 
 family looked upon her judgment as infallible : 
 to her even my stern aunt Diana yielded 
 without a murmur; — what Joan said, must be 
 right. 
 
 For all this, there never was a person more 
 unfitted by temper and character to undertake 
 the education of a child. She was arbitrary, 
 passionate, and unjust. The opinion she had 
 once advanced she never retracted, but upheld 
 in spite of the strongest proof to the contrary ; 
 she warped and distorted facts by looking at 
 them only through the glass of her own preju- 
 dices ; and if any one attempted to prevail on 
 her to put it aside, and regard the naked truth, 
 she shut her eyes. 
 
 I was a shy, timid, imaginative child, shrink-
 
 12 A FAMILY HISTORY, 
 
 ingly sensitive to kindness or its opposite, and 
 capable of passionate affection. She took it 
 into her head that I was cold, obstinate, and 
 sulky ; and having laid these down as the lead- 
 ing points in my character, she acted upon her 
 decision, always taking the worst possible view 
 of everything I said or did. 
 
 As soon as I could read the first volume of 
 Mrs. Barbauld's easy lessons, she began to teach 
 me French. I wished to please her — I took 
 pains with my tasks and learned rapidly, but she 
 was not satisfied. *' It is no merit in her," she 
 would say, as she put away a long lesson satis- 
 factorily said; "the child has a taste for lan- 
 guages and books, that's all." 
 
 At five years old I could be trusted to go 
 alone to a child's party, and abstain resolutely 
 from taking more than the half orange or the 
 piece of tart she permitted me — yet she said I 
 was disobedient. She told me that it was mean 
 and wicked to lie. If I broke anything she 
 acknowledged that I told of it myself — yet 
 she harassed me by continually doubting my 
 word. 
 
 She owned that I would give away the things 
 I prized most to any one I loved, yet she main- 
 tained I was incapable of affection ; while if I 
 hung about her or fondled her, I was almost 
 always told not to be tiresome, and ordered to 
 go away and not rumple her gown. When she
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 13 
 
 went from home, and I cried because she was 
 going, she told me — in the low, cold tone which 
 with her indicated rising passion — *^ to curb my 
 feelings ;" if I repressed my tears, she said, as 
 of old — " she has no heart." 
 
 My feelings were quick, but I was easily re- 
 pulsed. When I had been reproved for caress- 
 ing her, I could not, ten minutes afterwards, 
 spring upon her knee and kiss her when she 
 called me — because Lady Stanhope or Mrs. 
 Strang ways had just come in. She would have 
 'liked me to be always clinging to her and 
 fondling her before others — 1 shrank from any 
 public exhibition of love. 
 
 There was a young man who visited at our 
 house, who made a great pet of me, and I loved 
 him passionately in return. One night, when I 
 was about ^yq years old, my aunts gave a party, 
 and he was there. He wore in his coat a sprig 
 of clematis that he had plucked in crossing the 
 common. I found it the next morning on the 
 floor, dead and trampled ; I picked it up and laid 
 it away with my treasures, because he had worn it 
 — but I cautiously avoided letting any one see it. 
 
 I was seven or eight, when my father, whom 
 I had not seen for a year or two, fell danger- 
 ously ill. In hanging up a dress one morning, 
 my aunt Joan saw a dirty crumpled piece of 
 paper among some toys and horse-chestnuts I 
 was allowed to keep at the bottom of the cup-
 
 14 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 board. Seeing it was in my writing, curiosity 
 prompted her to read it ; it was a prayer for my 
 father's recovery which I had composed, and 
 repeated every day after my usual ones. Surely 
 these were not the traits of a cold, callous dis- 
 position ? 
 
 She said I was naughty : the fact was, I was 
 sensitive : and the lonely, dreary life I led 
 among stern grown-up women aggravated my 
 natural disposition, by increasing the delicacy of 
 my constitution. I lived in a state of continual 
 constraint, that was unnatural and unwholesome* 
 for a young child. It is true that in fine days I 
 was regularly taken out walking by one of my 
 aunts or Liston ; bat still in the house I was 
 expected to sit still and quiet for the greater 
 part of the day. 
 
 I had a little table, that stood under another 
 in the drawing-room, on which I kept my toys ; 
 and in front of that I sat on a hassock by the 
 hour together. If I got up and ran about, I 
 was presently told not to make a noise ; if I 
 asked questions, I was reminded " children ought 
 to be seen, not heard." 
 
 Sometimes I went to other houses to play 
 with other children ; now and then my aunts in- 
 vited other children to play with me ; but my 
 usual life was suppressed, strict, and lonely. 
 Yet I had my pleasures; but they were few, 
 and unlike those of a child.
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 15 
 
 Lonsdale was a beautiful place. A little be- 
 yond the village swept a noble river, edged on 
 one side by steep precipitous rocks, on the other 
 by dark massy woods and undulating fields. 
 The walk to it stretched across a wide breezy 
 common covered with fern and heather. 
 
 My aunt Joan was rather fond of sitting 
 reading upon these rocks, and often took me 
 with her ; and while she read I played and 
 gathered harebells, dwarf meadow-sweet, and 
 daisies. I had a pleasure in these walks she 
 did not fathom, and which I wanted words to 
 express. I liked to stand on the edge of the 
 cliffs, and look down upon the dark glassy river 
 below. I liked to see the black shadow flung 
 across it by the rocks, and the white winding 
 path below them that ran along its brink. I 
 liked to look up at the blue sky and watch the 
 white fleecy clouds float so silently along. 
 
 Often upon my memory now returns that 
 breezy air, the peculiar smell of the heath and 
 clematis, the wild warble of the birds. I was 
 six years old when we left Lonsdale. It was 
 eleven years before I saw it again, and I found 
 my way to every haunt of my childhood as 
 readily as if I had never left it. 
 
 Poetry was another of my pleasures. My 
 Aunt Joan liked reading aloud, for she read 
 beautifully. Often, when I could not under- 
 stand the subject, I was charmed by the melody
 
 16 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 of the rhythm. I felt the beauty of the psalms 
 and lessons, which we read aloud every, 
 day. She gave me Mrs. Barbauld's prose 
 hymns for children, and read them to me, and 
 their measured cadence fell upon my ear like 
 music. When the moon arose, I used to stand 
 at the window, and repeat the lines which de- 
 scribe it ; and if I saw a rose-bud, I whispered 
 softly to myself, ^^ See how she sits upon her 
 mossy stem, like the queen of all the flowers ; 
 her leaves glow like fire, the air is filled with 
 her sweet odour — she is the delight of every 
 eye." 
 
 I had Watts' hymns too. I could not bear 
 them. Nor can I now. The want of com- 
 panions of my own age, and the restraint in 
 which I lived, made me seek amusement in 
 fancy. I lived in a dream. Half the misdoings 
 my aunts set down to pure naughtiness arose 
 from absence of mind. No doubt I was very 
 provoking. I stood with my legs crossed to 
 relieve a weakness in one of them, and when I 
 was called did not remember to uncross them, 
 and fell flat on the floor. When I was sent 
 with a message to the cook, I forgot I had the 
 stairs to descend, and tumbled from top to 
 bottom ; and in the street I required perpetual 
 watching, for fear I should be run over by a car- 
 riage or fall into an area. This was not all. 
 My aunt Diana undertook to teach me the mys-
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 17 
 
 teries of hemming and seaming. I began my 
 work with the best intentions in the world, but 
 ere long I was lost in my dream-world. I lost 
 my needle, knotted my thread, took a long 
 stitch here, a short one there : flounced my 
 hem, puckered my seam, and got into all manner 
 of hobbles and disgrace : but it was not inten- 
 tional naughtiness. 
 
 My aunt Joan was at this time engaged to be 
 married. The match was broken off, and we 
 left Lonsdale. We removed to a town. Oh ! 
 how I hated our new home ! No winding river, 
 no picturesque rocks, or breezy common, were 
 there. Inclosed within lofty gates, surrounded 
 by high walls, stood our house, garden, and 
 field. The trees and grass looked dingy, the 
 earth black ; the flowers had that peculiar pale 
 sickly appearance which belongs to plants 
 growing in a smoky, unhealthy atmosphere. 
 There was no change now from the monotony 
 of my life, no pleasant walks through green 
 fields with aunt Theodosia, no picking wild 
 flowers while aunt Joan sat reading on the rocks. 
 Eound the field ran a gravel walk, beside it a 
 long border in which grew flowers, and fruit trees 
 were planted against the high walls. There I 
 took my daily exercise, for I could be trusted 
 not to touch the fruit. The luscious peaches, 
 the ripe nectarines, and green gages lay by 
 scores upon the ground, and I never even 
 
 VOL. I. c
 
 18 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 thought of taking one. Once I remember I 
 took a little gum from the bark of a plum-tree, 
 and mj aunt Joan magnified it into a great 
 crime. I was whipped, and made to kneel down 
 and ask God's pardon, and believed myself a 
 dreadful sinner. 
 
 My childish faults were not punished and 
 forgotten, as children's faults ought to he. My 
 aunt Joan, and even my aunt Diana, talked 
 for years afterwards of an ill-written copy, a 
 chance fit of disobedience, or a lesson badly 
 said. 
 
 If I read of a naughty child, I was always 
 indirectly told that I resembled him or her, till 
 I got at last to believe myself the wickedest child 
 on the earth. There was one story in VAhhe 
 Gaultier Leqons Graduees that I never could 
 finish for the hysterical weeping it brought on. 
 Once I remember that for three days my aunt 
 Joan hardly spoke to me, and that I was haunted 
 by an indefinite sense of having committed some 
 awful crime — what I did not know, as she taxed 
 me with nothing. I believe she fancied I had 
 told a story ; but I had not. I recall all this 
 now, and blame her: theii I wept, because she 
 and my aunt Diana thought me so wicked. It 
 never occurred to me then that I was treated 
 differently to other children, for I knew no other 
 home. 
 
 Before, my aunt used, at rare intervals, to pet
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 19 
 
 and play with me ; now her sorrow of heart made 
 her always harsh. I understand, now that I 
 know all, why she became so cross and severe 
 over my lessons after we left Lonsdale. Her 
 mental irritation vented itself upon me ; and 
 she and my aunt Diana never saw how unreason- 
 able and hard they were to a young solitary 
 child. 
 
 Oh ! how I hated that town-dwelling, where 
 they were all so cross ! How I abhorred the 
 pent-up, closed-in field and garden ! I longed 
 for freedom with unutterable longing — for wings 
 to get away beyond those high red brick walls. 
 Every morning I looked at them with a sort of 
 despair. I never went outside them except to 
 church, or, on very rare occasions, to pay a visit 
 with my aunts ; and I fancied that if I could 
 only get to where I saw kites flying, I should 
 see rocks, and water, and pleasant fields again. 
 I talked so much of this wish, that one day my' 
 aunt Theodosia took me to the place where the 
 boys went to fly their kites. 
 
 It was a brickfield, surrounded by ditches. 
 
 My disappointment w^as so great I could hardly 
 forbear tears. It may seem strange, but it is 
 true, that the ugliness of this place, after the 
 wild romantic scenery to which I had been ac- 
 customed, actually preyed on my young spirit. 
 To get away from those brick walls, and see 
 flowers and fields, was my ceaseless aspiration. 
 
 c2
 
 20 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 I had my wish sooner than I expected. I was 
 sent to my father's. 
 
 At first I was glad when 1 was told I was to 
 go home to papa and mamma, and my brothers 
 and sisters. As the time for my departure drew 
 near, I felt pain at the approaching separation 
 from my aunts ; and when the day actually came, 
 my grief brought on one of those fits of con- 
 vulsive crying for which my aunt Joan had so 
 often whipped me. 
 
 She said, in the low tone she used when dis- 
 pleased — more awful than any violent scolding I 
 ever heard, accompanied as it was by flashing 
 eyes, set lips, and face white with passion — 
 
 " Pray, now, stop. It's folly to cry in that 
 way. If you had cared for us, you wouldn't 
 have been so often naughty over your lessons — 
 everybody knows you have no feeling," gave me a 
 cold kiss, and handed me over to the maid to put 
 inside the coach which had stopped to take me up. 
 
 Liston gave me many warm kisses, as she 
 carried me through the great gates, and lifted me 
 into the coach. *^ Don't cry, Miss Lizzy," said 
 she ; " you'll soon have your brothers and sisters 
 to play with." That thought, and my aunt 
 Joan's unkind farewell, which I felt to be quite 
 undeserved, inasmuch as I generally took great 
 pains with my lessons, made me dry my eyes, 
 and I said to myself, as I sat ruminating in my 
 corner, " that I was glad to go home !"
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 21 
 
 I reached the small market town near which 
 my parents lived. The nurse and children had 
 been sent in a cart to fetch me and my trunk 
 from the coach-office. I think now that if my 
 child had been four years away from me, I should 
 have been waiting for her at the inn door. But, 
 then, everything seemed pleasant. I liked the 
 looks of my pretty brothers and sisters, who 
 glanced shyly at me with their great eyes ; and 
 it was such fun to ride in a cart — I had never 
 ridden in one before. Then, when we drove out 
 of the town, I saw hedges, and flowers under- 
 neath them, and I clapped my hands in de- 
 light. 
 
 " Oh I Thomas, do get me some periwinkles — 
 please do ?" 
 
 ^^ Perry— what. Miss?" 
 
 "Periwinkles — those long blue things," for 
 they hung in long graceful wreaths over the high 
 bank. 
 
 Thomas was good-natured, and besides amused 
 at seeing me so beside myself at the sight of 
 what he thought such common things as prim- 
 roses and " th' blue flowers ; " he gathered a 
 large handful for each of us, and then we went 
 on. We should never have got home if I had 
 had my own way ; for each tuft of flowers ap- 
 peared to me lovelier than the last. 
 
 ^' Miss 'Lisbeth, Tve gathered 'ee plenty, and 
 I wean't gather no more. We shall never get
 
 22 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 home to-night. You'll see plenty in th' fields 
 to-morrow." 
 
 I knew he had been indulgent, and I asked for 
 no more, trusting to his promise that I should 
 see plenty to-morrow. I did ; but from that 
 day to this I have never again seen the peri- 
 winkle growing wild. I should like once more 
 to go down that high-hedged Bedfordshire lane 
 in the early spring, and see the blue periwinkles. 
 
 I ran in with the other children to my 
 mother ; her embrace was almost as cold as my 
 aunt Joan's, and I drew back, chilled and em- 
 barrassed. 
 
 " How like you are to your aunt Joan, and 
 you speak just like her ; you've just her prim 
 manners. There, go into the nursery, and Susan 
 will take off your things." 
 
 My aunt Joan and my mother detested each 
 other^ and I knew it. I felt from this speech I 
 should be no favourite at home. 
 
 I followed the others to the nursery. It was 
 a huge garret, extending all over the house, 
 one end being partitioned off for a sleeping 
 apartment, and made a capital nursery from its 
 size. When our hats and coats were taken off, 
 I wanted to play with my brothers and sisters, 
 who had been sociable enough with me in the 
 cart. Tom ran under the sloping roof, and, 
 crouching there sullenly, would not come out ; 
 the elder boy climbed on a chair, and continued
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 23 
 
 resolutely looking out of the window in the roof, 
 from which he could see nothing; refusing to 
 turn round. I went up to Claudia, she bit me 
 — Jane roared. 
 
 " Go away with you, and let ^em alone. Miss 
 'Lisbeth," said the nurse ; " I knew there'd be 
 no end of trouble when you came." 
 
 She had never seen me before. With the 
 others she had lived two years, and she regarded 
 me as an interloper, who had no business on her 
 premises. 
 
 I sat down on a rush-bottomed chair, without 
 work, or book, or doll — more alone in my father's 
 house than I had ever felt among my stern 
 aunts since the day I first went to them. At 
 last, in about an hour, the housemaid fetched 
 me to drink tea in the parlour. There I found 
 my father, who kissed me, told me I was grown, 
 asked after my aunts, cut me some bread and 
 butter, and resumed the conversation with my 
 mother, which my entrance had interrupted. 
 There was no petting, no making much of the 
 long-absent child, as I had fondly anticipated. 
 After tea, my mother told me to return to the 
 nursery, and I went. 
 
 Home was not what I had expected. I found 
 it less so the following day. My aunt Theodosia 
 had taken me to select, and given me money to 
 buy, some toys as presents for my brothers and 
 sisters. When my trunk was unpacked, I got
 
 24 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 these treasures and distributed them. They 
 snatched them rudely from me, did not even 
 thank me for them, and in a few moments broke 
 them to pieces. A large empty cask that stood 
 on the nursery floor was half full of similar relics 
 of all such toys as could be destroyed. I went 
 to look at its contents, Tom kicked me, and the 
 other snatched the fragment I had taken up 
 away, exclaiming, ^^ I should not have his 
 things ! " 
 
 My life at home was wretched. Claudia and 
 Jane cried for every valuable I possessed, from 
 my wax doll to my cups and saucers, and what- 
 ever they cried for they had, so that in a short 
 time all my possessions were destroyed. As to 
 my brothers, they struck me with doubled fists, 
 and kicked me with their thick shoes. They 
 were younger than I was, though not much, but 
 they were far stronger: they hurt and frightened 
 me. 
 
 I do not mean to dwell on the painful subject 
 of a mismanaged family ; but merely to show 
 why I was unhappy in my home. Nevertheless, 
 despite all mismanagement, it would have been 
 far better for me to have lived from infancy to 
 youth in my p/irents' house, to have cuffed and 
 quarrelled and made friends again with my 
 brothers and sisters, than to have grown up as 
 I did a stranger to them, educated to a higher 
 degree of refinement, with quite other feelings,
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 25 
 
 thoughts, and ideas than theirs. Nor when T 
 speak of my parents as receiving me coldly do 
 I mean to blame them. That they loved me 
 less than the others was in persons of their tem- 
 perament a necessary consequence of my early 
 removal from them. I left them at the age 
 when childhood is most endearing and engaging, 
 and now I stood a stranger at their hearth. I 
 did not seem to belong to them. 
 
 Causes over which I had no control, which no 
 goodness or amiability of mine could have pre- 
 vented, made me experience the truth of the 
 proverb, " that between two stools one falls to 
 the ground." 
 
 My aunt Joan, who boasted descent from a 
 younger branch of the famous Earl Warwick's 
 iaraily, had as great a passion for governing as 
 the king-maker himself If she could, she 
 would have governed kingdoms; as she could 
 not, she ruled her family — some of them with 
 an iron hand. She was a tender, generous sister 
 to my father; he could see no faults in the sister 
 who helped him in all difficulties, and never saw 
 any errors in him; but his marriage had dis- 
 pleased both Mrs. and Miss Neville. 
 
 " Robert, with his personal beauty and good 
 family, might have done so much better. Why 
 did he not marry a woman like Lucia Digby,
 
 26 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 who has a good fortune, and is intellectual, and 
 descended from Sir Kenelm Digby?" my aunt 
 Joan used to say wrathfully, and my aunt Diana 
 echoed her lamentations. 
 
 They did not see that Miss Digby would not 
 have suited him in any respect, while my mother 
 was the very woman for him. 
 
 She was neat, active, bustling, and a capital 
 housewife, and my sickly, poor, fastidious father sat 
 down every day to as delicate a dinner as if it had 
 been dressed by a man-cook. His own wife's 
 hands had prepared it, to tempt his languid ap- 
 petite — and then she had run upstairs, quickly 
 and deftly exchanged her coloured morning gown 
 for spotless white — her beautiful glossy hair was 
 always in order — and sat down with him to the 
 neatly spread board, also laid out by her hands — 
 looking just as if she had never moved from her 
 drawing-room or entered a kitchen that day. 
 In his long severe illnesses her cheerful spirits 
 sustained him. Her tender nursing saved his life 
 again and again ; and if sometimes — for both 
 were hasty — they flew into a passion witTi each 
 other, and exchanged angry words — they pre- 
 sently forgot all about it, wheii my aunt Joan 
 was not hy to inierfere. 
 
 She, who never rescinded an opinion, who 
 never looked at both sides of a subject, could 
 see no merits in my mother ; she could not forgive 
 her, a mere surgeon's daughter, for marrying
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 27 
 
 Eobert Neville, in spite of all her efforts to pre- 
 vent the match. 
 
 Whenever the two ladies met, there was a 
 ceaseless skirmishing going on ; but I must say 
 my aunt Joan was always the aggressor. She 
 lectured my mother on the way she managed 
 her house and her children ; found fault with 
 the colour, material, and cut of her gowns ; un- 
 justly accused her of wanton and wasteful extra- 
 vagance ; and by constantly appealing to my 
 father to support her opinions, irritated him 
 against his devoted wife in a way no woman 
 could bear ; and all the time she was making 
 irremediable mischief, prided herself on the good 
 she was doing. As Earl Warwick wanted to 
 reduce King Edward to a mere puppet governed 
 by his will, so she wanted to make my mother a 
 mere dim shadow — to bring her into a state of 
 dependence no wife could brook ; a dependence 
 not on her husband's superior judgment — but 
 on his sister's. She desired to be anpealed to on 
 every subject when present — and wnen absent, to 
 be consulted by letter. 
 
 Happily for my mother, my aunt did not often 
 visit my father ; but she never failed to point out 
 all her defects and shortcomings in her letters 
 to him. 
 
 I was the chief victim to this domestic dis- 
 union. My mother could not bear to see me 
 growing up like my aunt Joan.
 
 28 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 " I spoke, I read, I even looked,'' she said, 
 " like her, and I had learnt all her fine-lady 
 airs." 
 
 How could I help it ? She taught me to 
 read, and unconsciously I acquired her accent 
 and modulation of voice. The habits my mother 
 called " fine-lady airs," were inculcated in me 
 under pain of severe chastisement ; for both my 
 aunts thought with Solomon that '^ he that 
 spareth the rod spoileth the child." 
 
 My aunt Joan, on the other hand, declared — 
 " I was a mere pink and white wax doll, just 
 like ray mother in her girlish days, with no real 
 beauty, and no expression. I had nothing of 
 the Nevilles in me ; I was my mother over again, 
 in temper, person, and face." 
 
 Truly does the Bible say, ^' No man can serve 
 two masters." A child ought to look up with 
 dutiful reverence to its parents ; but when it is 
 tossed about like a shuttlecock from one person 
 to another, and each superior does not hesitate 
 to express bffore it the harshest and most con- 
 temptuous opinion of the other, that reverence 
 must he lost. 
 
 Before I went home I thought my aunt Joan 
 infallible. I learnt from my mother that she 
 was as full of faults as myself. 
 
 Then I called to mind various instances in 
 which she had been harsh and unjust to me : 
 various things she had said of my mother before
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 29 
 
 me, which never ought to have met a child's 
 ears : and I felt my mother was right. 
 
 My mind became divided. I saw good in 
 both, but could go wholly with neither — and I 
 was but nine years old. In this frame of mind 
 I returned to my aunts' house.
 
 30 
 
 CHAPTER IL 
 
 It was not to the dark, gloomy town-house, with 
 its dingy black field and high walls, that I went 
 back. Before I was summoned to rejoin my 
 aunts they had settled themselves in a small 
 country village, among their own kith and kin. 
 
 The scenery around was very pretty. There 
 were no grand features ; no heath-clad hilly 
 slopes, no wild moors glowing with golden gorse, 
 no mountains or lakes ; but everywhere that 
 calm smiling beauty so peculiar to England, and 
 so exhilarating because it betokens a productive, 
 well-cultivated, and prosperous country. Through 
 fertile corn-fields and meadows green with rich 
 luxuriant herbage, past many a well-wooded 
 cliff, flowed a clear river. Far and wide on 
 either hand spread the rich champaign pros- 
 pect; and at every few miles distance, embosomed 
 in dark woods, or standing at the bottom of an 
 avenue of old trees, rose the old ancestral homes 
 of families whose names and deeds form a 
 portion of English history. We were surrounded 
 by Mauleverers, Talbots, Howards, De Veres,
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 31 
 
 St. Maurs, and Beauchamps ; and to most of 
 these families, we — the Nevilles— were allied. 
 
 Therefore, though they counted their thou- 
 sands where my aunts counted hundreds, we 
 held up our heads with the best, as became 
 Nevilles who were of the same stock as " the 
 King-maker.^' 
 
 And our claims were acknowledged. In 
 every one of these old halls my aunts were re- 
 ceived with as much respect as if they had still 
 owned, like their progenitors, innumerable 
 manors. A love of ancestry still holds its place 
 in the hearts of northern country gentlemen. It 
 is time it died out ; and yet, poor and paltry as 
 it is, the pride of blood is better than the pride 
 of wealth, which seems likely to usurp its place. 
 When shall we learn to value mental cultivation 
 and moral worth as we ought to do, and esteem 
 a man for his merits rather than for his acres or 
 his thousands? 
 
 We valued ourselves not a little upon our 
 ancestry, and were gently condescending to Mr. 
 and Mrs. Robinson, the Miss Blacks, old Mrs. 
 Hewson, Mrs. Sims, and ^' such persons,'' calling 
 on them about once a quarter, and staying ten 
 minutes. My aunts, moreover, patronized the 
 surgeon, and said he *^ seemed a respectable, 
 well-behaved sort of young man ;" but I believe 
 they would as soon have thought of asking Sir 
 Everard Graeme's butler to tea as Mr. Jones.
 
 32 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 When I saj my aunts, I must always be un- 
 derstood to mean my aunt Diana and my aunt 
 Joan, who were the governing powers. My 
 aunt Theodosia could never be brought to enter- 
 tain a proper sense of her dignity as a Neville. 
 She grew intimate with Thomson, Jones, and 
 Jenkins, and would have visited Dobbins, had 
 there been a Dobbins in the place ; and I was 
 equally low-minded, for she took me with her in 
 these visits, and they were all kind to me. I 
 liked them as well as any Howard or Maule- 
 verer in the neighbourhood. 
 
 Perhaps they pitied the solitary child growing 
 up under those two stern aunts ; and I deserved 
 pity, for mine was a dreary life for a young 
 creature. 
 
 Everything around me was stiff, formal, and 
 uncomfortable. I breathed an ungenial air. 
 Even our large, light sitting-room had a bare, 
 cold, comfortless look ; it never seemed in- 
 habited. There were no well-cushioned, tempt- 
 ing arm-chairs ; no soft, inviting couches ; no 
 tables scattered with books, newspapers, and 
 work, to take up and lay down at will. The 
 book was read, and replaced on its shelf; the 
 newspaper folded up as soon as done with, and 
 j)laced under a paper-weight, ready for the boy 
 who came to fetch it ; the work or netting put 
 aAvay as soon as finished. Every article in the 
 room looked as if it had been taught to know its
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 33 
 
 place, and bad too much principle to move the 
 tenth part of an inch from it. The chairs were 
 drawn up against the walls like a file of soldiers ; 
 and the cumbrous, hard, heavy sofa on the right 
 liand of the fire-place, and the uncomfortable, 
 heavy, square arm-chair on the left, might have 
 been likened to the major and senior captain 
 inspecting them. There could be no doubt they 
 were all on parade. 
 
 Oh, those chairs ! It makes ray back ache 
 even now to think of them. I have no doubt 
 they were made after a fashionable design, by 
 some unfashionable carpenter. They always 
 looked as if they had risen in the world, and not 
 got used to their position. They could not 
 stand at ease, and they certainly let nobody sit 
 so. Most decided parvenues — an unpretending 
 bed-room cane chair, with a hay cushion covered 
 with chintz, would have looked far better, and 
 been more comfortable, than those make-believe 
 rose-woods. Their hind legs were longer than 
 their front ones, in consequence of which the 
 seats sloped so that it required a perpetual effort 
 to prevent yourself from sliding off* them. My 
 aunts remedied this inconvenience by using foot- 
 stools ; but if I, a tall, slim girl outgrowing my 
 strength, dared rest my weary spine in this 
 manner, my aunt Diana took off her spectacles, 
 laid them down on the table, and turned upon 
 me a glance I dreaded as much as if it had been 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 34 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 Medusa's. The keen, grey eyes seemed to look 
 through me, and to flash lightning, as she asked 
 in her sternest tone, 
 
 " Heyday, Miss ! What will the world come 
 to presently, when children want footstools ? 
 You'll put it away immediately." 
 
 I obeyed, and resumed my seat. 
 
 " Can't you sit straight, child ?" 
 
 I drew myself up, as if I had swallowed the 
 poker, and my aunt Diana turned round again to 
 her book or her knitting. But my feet did not quite 
 reach the ground, and in a few moments the 
 continued strain necessary to retain my seat on 
 those horrid chairs made my back ache so vio- 
 lently, that as I could not relieve myself, like my 
 aunts, by using a footstool, I sought a little ease 
 by stooping forwards, and my aunt Joan, lifting 
 up her eyes from her book, would say, 
 
 *' There, Diana ! look at her — but no, I will 
 not — such obstinacy is heart-breaking r 
 
 No words of mine can describe the bitter 
 stage-pathos of that last word. Oh ! my aunt 
 Joan would have made her fortune on the boards. 
 When I first went to Hilton I used to try to 
 please them, and sit bolt upright ; but when I 
 heard them complaining, day after day, of the 
 uneasiness of those high, sloping-seated chairs, 
 and saw them making themselves comfortable 
 with footstools, while they expected me to endure 
 a perpetual back-ache, I lost all patience in my
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 35 
 
 heart, took no heed of their scoldings, and 
 stooped whenever I felt tired. 
 
 My aunt Diana and my aunt Joan invariably 
 sat opposite each other at the table in front of 
 the fire-place. Behind my aunt Diana's chair, 
 in front of a window to which she always turned 
 her back, that she might command the two front 
 windows looking on the approach to the house, 
 was a long table, covered with a dark blue cloth, 
 with an orange-patterned border, the middle of 
 which was occupied by her desk and a few books 
 ranged formally behind it. The desk was flanked 
 on one side by a small pincushion and the news- 
 paper weight ; on the other by my aunt Joan's 
 red morocco work-box, which she never used, 
 because she never worked. 
 
 Aunt Theodosia and I always ensconced our- 
 selves at the two ends of this long table, in order 
 to be as much out of sight as possible. But, 
 alas ! if rav aunt Diana's back was turned to me, 
 my aunt Joan, sitting with gloved hands over 
 her book, commanded my flank ; and I think 
 while I remained at Hilton she never left me 
 half an hour alone without grumbling about 
 something. 
 
 This sitting-room of my aunt's was large, 
 square, and lofty. Two windows at one end, 
 and a large window at the side where aunt 
 Theodosia and I sat summer and winter, made 
 it remarkably light, without making it cheerful. 
 
 d2
 
 36 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 The cross lights from the windows were painful 
 to the eyes ; and there was something peculiarly 
 inharmonious in the adaptation of colours and 
 furniture, which betrayed a want of mental and 
 moral harmony in her whose taste had selected 
 them, namely, my aunt Joan. The paper on 
 the walls was a very pale pink, the wainscot and 
 book-cases painted oak, the tables mahogany, 
 the chairs imitation rose-wood, the window- 
 curtains and furniture-covers buff chintz, lined 
 with a dull blue ; the carpet a most objection- 
 able, conspicuous, staring pattern of huge round 
 flowers, with four petals of bright blue, alter- 
 nating with diamonds of a colour that was neither 
 flesh, nor fawn, nor drab-colour, but a mixture 
 of all those shades ; and the table-covers were a 
 deep navy-blue, with orange borders, of a totally 
 different shade from either the flowers in the 
 carpet or the linings of the window curtains. 
 
 I could draw the pattern of that carpet from 
 memory now. Many a weary hour have I sat 
 looking at it in the gloaming, for want of any- 
 thing else to do. 
 
 My aunts liked to sit or stand by the fireside, 
 talking over old times, when it was too dusk to 
 read or work ; but if I grew interested in their 
 conversation, or presumed to ask a question, I 
 was tartly asked ** if I supposed they were going 
 to rip up dead people's reputations to amuse a 
 child ?" or told ^^ to listen to what concerned me,
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 37 
 
 not to what di I not." So I generally sat by the 
 window, and watched the rooks flying home to 
 their nests in the fir trees, or the floating clouds 
 gathering together in large grey masses as night 
 came on, till it grew too dark to distinguish any- 
 thing, and, cold and melancholy, I went and stood 
 by the fire, or sat on a hassock near it, and 
 looked at the pattern on the carpet, and thought 
 how dull, dreary, and monotonous my life was, 
 and wished, like the lady in ray uncle's fairy- 
 tale, ^^ that the roaring bull of Babylon would 
 come and carry me away, and marry me V 
 
 I had many wishes, but the chief one was to 
 go to school, and learn what other young people 
 of my age learned — more especially music and 
 drawing. I compared myself with the girls 
 w^hose families my aunts visited with feelings of 
 the deepest humiliation. 
 
 My aunt Joan held some strange theories 
 about education, as most single women do. 
 They are generally theoretical, not practical, 
 however clever ; while a mother, guided by the 
 plain common sense which makes her wish to 
 see her girls like those of other people, brings 
 up her family wisely, according to the manners 
 of her day and age. 
 
 One of my aunt's theories was that there is 
 no use in any one's learning accomplishments for 
 which they have not an absolute genius. She 
 would have had no one handle a pencil unless
 
 38 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 they bade fair to become a Titian or Michael 
 Angelo ; or learn music, unless they had the 
 natural genius of Mozart. 
 
 I think all women should be accomplished — 
 not because it is desirable they should be artists, 
 but that they may have talents to cheer and en- 
 liven the domestic circle. A moderate skill in 
 music beguiles many an hour away pleasantly in 
 families who are not highly intellectual, have no 
 pleasure in books, and but little conversational 
 talent ; and sends them to bed happier and better 
 pleased with one another than when the evening 
 has been spent in ill-suppressed yawns and com- 
 plaints of dulness. The world is chiefly made 
 up by persons of average abilities, on whom 
 Mozarts and Titians would be very much thrown 
 away ; but I have noticed that those families 
 are the most united and affectionate who have 
 the greatest variety of accomplishments to amuse 
 and enliven their homes. There is a great 
 dearth of employment for unmarried women ; 
 and it unites sisters to have a mutual interest 
 and occupation in practising music for the 
 family's evening entertainment, who would other- 
 wise have passed their time in idleness or con- 
 tention. How I have seen those who had no 
 pleasure in reading, no neighbours to visit, and 
 who were not permitted to take any share in the 
 management of the house, pass the day in quar- 
 relling and contradicting each other, and t or
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 39 
 
 menting the one unfortunate sister who possessed 
 a love of occupation, even to the taking away of 
 the light she read or worked by. Surely those 
 girls would have been better employed strum- 
 ming. 
 
 Then my aunt Joan maintained that as every 
 well educated woman was, to a certain degree, 
 self-educ2itedf there was no use in wasting money 
 on schools or teachers. Every one, she observed, 
 could teach themselves if they liked. She had. 
 
 She used to tell me I had no better prospect 
 than that of going out as a governess ; yet she 
 would not allow me to fit myself for the employ- 
 ment, alleging I had no taste for either music or 
 drawing. 
 
 Mrs. Mauleverer told her, " Rome was not 
 built in a day, and she could not tell whether I 
 had a talent for drawing or not till I tried ;" but 
 my aunt Joan never listened to any opinion that 
 contravened her own. 
 
 Then Mrs. Mauleverer rummaged out some 
 old *^ elements of drawing," paper and pencil, 
 and her son showed me how to hold my pencil, 
 and to outline and shade, during a three days' 
 visit I paid his mother. I took these lithographs 
 home with me, and assiduously copied them, and 
 every other drawing I could lay my hands on, 
 for two years ; and at last — touched, I suppose, 
 by my perseverance — my aunt Joan let me have 
 a few lessons from a lady who taught drawing in
 
 40 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 Hilton, still maintaining I had no talent, and should 
 never draw as long as I lived. She was partly- 
 right. The defect in my eyesight of necessity 
 precluded excellence ; but I had a strong artistic 
 taste, which showed itself from my earliest child- 
 hood in my intense love of nature, and the skill 
 with which I grouped llowers together ; and the 
 little knowledge obtained with so much difficulty 
 has been a source of infinite pleasure to me 
 through life, by enabling me to understand the 
 beauty of a picture or an engraving, and in- 
 valuable in many a feminine avocation, as select- 
 ing colours for a dress, furnishing or arranging 
 a room. 
 
 Another lady offered me her daughter's old 
 piano, and all the music she had learnt from. 
 My aunt refused both, saying my practising 
 would annoy my aunt Theodosia, who had a 
 very musical ear. 
 
 *'Not at alV replied Mrs. Howard ; "you 
 have a large house, and Elizabeth is young and 
 healthy : it will do her no harm to practise an 
 hour or two every day in the cold. Let her 
 take her piano up into the garret; you would 
 not hear her there." 
 
 " She has no taste for music, Mrs. Howard. 
 I am obliged to you for your offer, but I do not 
 wish Elizabeth to play," replied my aunt, shortly. 
 
 Afterwards, when Mrs. Howard had departed, 
 she said to ray aunt Diana —
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 41 
 
 " Such nonsense — Mrs. Mauleverer and Mrs. 
 Howard telling me what I ought to let Elizabeth 
 learn. She has no ear ; and if she had, I do 
 not want her to learn music. The world would 
 not hold her if she knew how to play, and I 
 didn't." 
 
 But a greater grief than these mortifications 
 was in store for me : when I was fourteen my 
 father died suddenly. I had seen little of him, 
 but he ivas ray father, and I grieved bitterly. 
 From my aunt Diana I met a rough sympathy." 
 My aunt Joan said — 
 
 " Hold your tongue, and don't make a noise ; 
 every one knows you have no feeling." 
 
 After that bitter speech I never let her see 
 me shed another tear. By day I struggled to 
 appear unconcerned, for I knew that any show 
 of feeling would only draw down on me invective 
 and reproach ; and I wept half the night through. 
 The consequence was, I fell ill. 
 
 I do not know whether my pale face induced 
 my aunt Diana to think I required the society 
 of young companions of my own age, or what 
 her precise reason was — she never told me ; I 
 am certain it was a kind one — but about this 
 time she took it into her head to send me to a 
 day-school where other young ladies in Hilton 
 went, in order, as she said, ^^ that I might learn 
 to work decently." 
 
 My aunt Joan disapproved of the plan ; but
 
 42 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 for once my elder aunt carried her point, and I 
 went. 
 
 *' What nonsense,'' said my aunt Joan, when, 
 the first evening of my return from school, she 
 saw me sit down to study my English grammar ; 
 '^ why, I will answer for it, you could write a 
 better letter than Miss Hardy. Child, it's pure 
 waste of time. You could parse at nine years 
 old. I advise you to slur your lessons over ; 
 they are a mere nonsensical form." 
 
 I was only fourteen, and foolish enough to 
 feel flattered that my clever, caustic aunt thought 
 so highly of my attainments ; and without re- 
 flecting that Miss Hardy was really a clever, 
 well-educated woman, perfectly capable of in- 
 structing a much better informed girl than 
 myself, I took her advice, and thus lost the 
 ordy opportunity ever offered me of obtaining a 
 good solid English education ; and I have re- 
 gretted it ever since. 
 
 Grown-up persons have so many compul- 
 sory occupations, so many cares and sorrows 
 to distract their mind or occupy their 
 time, that there are few who have either 
 the leisure or the patience necessary to 
 go over the ground which ought to have been 
 prepared in their childhood, and to lay the 
 foundations of a thorough knowledge of his- 
 tory, geography, grammar, and everything 
 afresh. All through my life I have painfully
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 43 
 
 felt the disadvantage of my neglected education. 
 
 My father had died without a will, and con- 
 sequently my mother became sole guardian of 
 her children, greatly to my aunt Joan's annoy- 
 ance, who declared they would all be ruined by 
 bad management. 
 
 Mamma's income w\as now a very small one, 
 and she determined to move into Devonshire, 
 both because it was a cheap county, and be- 
 cause her own relations resided there. She 
 informed my aunt Joan of her intentions by a 
 letter, in wdiich she said, "that as my aunt 
 had thought fit to take me from my family, 
 and bring me up in a totally different style of 
 life to that which her little income would 
 enable her to keep up, and I was of course 
 quite unfit for anything useful, she thought 
 the least she could do was to provide for me 
 altogether." 
 
 This letter made my aunt Joan furious. She 
 could not endure the idea that I had the 
 smallest claim upon her, or that in taking her 
 from my parent's care she had contracted any 
 duty or obligation towards me. Probably she 
 felt my mother was right, and was not at peace 
 with herself, and therefore irritated against me. 
 I only know that from that time she conceived 
 a violent aversion to me, and constantly re- 
 ferred to the claim my mother had made as ''an 
 unheard of thing."
 
 44 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 I think with my mother. I believe that if I 
 took a beggar out of the street, and kept it 
 like my child for some months, I should have 
 voluntarily contracted duties which I should 
 afterwards have no right to disclaim. 
 
 The year of mourning expired, and my black 
 dresses were worn out. I had continued to 
 grow rapidly ; I was now turned fifteen, and a 
 little taller than my aunt Joan. I had re- 
 covered my health, and looks of admiration 
 from gentlemen, and my mirror, told me I was 
 pretty. I was certainly not vain, for I was 
 utterly careless about my appearance, and my 
 aunts often reproached me for being so ; I sup- 
 pose, therefore, that it was to humble me, and 
 teach me my dependence upon them, that they 
 chose the time when I was just starting into 
 womanhood for dressing me like a scarecrow. 
 
 Hitherto I had had my frocks made plainly, 
 like other girls of my age ; but now my aunt 
 Joan took it into her head to give me certain 
 white gowns that had been laid by for years, 
 ever since the short waists and tight skirts worn 
 under the empire had gone out of fashion. My 
 aunt Diana scarcely ever left the house, and 
 really knew nothing about dress. I was not 
 therefore surprised to hear her say, 
 
 ** Oh ! Joan ! those beautiful dresses you 
 had made in Paris ! You can't mean it ? " 
 
 " Yes, I do," said my aunt, in that dulcet
 
 A FAMILY HISTOKY. 45 
 
 voice she invariably used when she meant to 
 annoy any one particularly. ^' My dear, I will 
 give you those four white dresses. I can spare 
 them, Diana." She knew well that nothing 
 would have induced her to wear one of them 
 herself, and that I knew it also. 
 
 " I wouldn't, Joan ; and she doesn't thank 
 you.'' 
 
 *' Never mind that, Diana. Happily, I do 
 not ask for thanks. She shall have the 
 gowns." 
 
 And, alas ! I had them. Dresses were worn 
 then with skirts as wide and flounces as deep 
 as they are now, and very long waists confined 
 by a ribbon band and buckle. These detest- 
 able white gowns were gored, and about two 
 yards wide round the bottom of the skirts. 
 
 Two of them had three rows of very narrow 
 flounces, the width of two of my fingers ; 
 and two were trimmed with crevees, that is, 
 round holes cut in the skirt, and filled up with 
 a circular piece of finer muslin, forming a puff. 
 The waist was short, and exactly crossed my 
 bosom. Such dresses had not been worn within 
 my memory. Not a maid we had would have 
 put one on ; not a poor person in the village 
 suffered her child to appear in them. 
 
 I durst make no remonstrance, but I was too 
 true to express pleasure in such a gift. My 
 aunt put them in my hand, and told me to
 
 46 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 • 
 
 take them upstairs, and give them to Liston to 
 get up, and I said briefly : — 
 
 " Thank you, aunt Joan." 
 
 Less I dared not say. 
 
 " I told you," said ray aunt Diana — " she is 
 not in the least obliged to you." 
 
 *^ Never mind, I am used to that," replied my 
 aunt Joan, with a pathetic air of resignation to 
 my ingratitude. The gowns were washed and got 
 up, and I wore them. But my misery was not 
 complete. I wanted a school bonnet. My 
 aunt Diana thought the Leghorn I had had 
 four years too good for me to go to school in. 
 Aunt Theodosia said I might have an old one of 
 hers she was about to leave off wearing, but 
 she did not like it to be said I wore her old 
 bonnet, and therefore she unfortunately took 
 off the trimming, and gave it to Liston, sewing 
 on two purple strings, merely to tie it with. 
 
 ^* There, Lizzie," said she, giving it to me, as 
 she came into the room, ** it is good enough to 
 go to school in." 
 
 ^^ Oh 1 quite ; thank you, aunt The," I an- 
 swered, very contentedly. 
 
 ^^ Let me look at it," said my aunt Diana. 
 
 I gave it her. 
 
 She turned it round, remarked " that part of 
 the crown which had been covered by the 
 trimming looked whiter than the rest, which 
 was burnt brown by exposure to the sun," and
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 47 
 
 told me to ^' go up stairs and ask Liston for 
 the oldest muslin neck handkerchief she had." 
 
 I obeyed, and brought it to her. To aunt 
 The's dismay and my horror, she pinned it on 
 the bonnet crown with the observation ^' that 
 twenty years before she had seen the beautiful 
 Lady Charlotte Hamilton at church with a pink 
 crape handkerchief tied over her bonnet/^ 
 
 " I see, miss," she added, *^ that you don't 
 like it, but people who have their clothes given 
 to them must be thankful for what they can 
 get." 
 
 It was the depth of winter. Snow lay on the 
 ground. My aunt Diana rummaged up out of 
 her store-room an old cloak, which had been 
 dyed, and put aside because it had shrunk so 
 much that it would not meet across the chest. 
 This cloak was given to me. Nobody wore 
 cloaks at that time, but that was of no conse- 
 quence in my aunts' eyes. They aimed at 
 making me ridiculous. 
 
 Its colour was a yellowish green, like a dying 
 sage leaf. It reached nearly to my heels, and 
 would only meet round my neck. 
 
 In that narrow, gored, and creveed white 
 gown, cloak and bonnet, I was sent next day to 
 school. 
 
 I got in well enough. I contrived to be late, 
 and the girls were in class. I pulled the ob- 
 noxious garments off without observation, and
 
 48 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 hung them up in the room appropriated to the 
 day scholars' bonnets, shawls, and baskets ; but 
 when morning school was over, an officious 
 friend would go to help me on with my things. 
 She screamed with laughter when she saw my 
 droll equipment, and darting to the top of the 
 stairs called out — 
 
 *^ Young ladies, young ladies, here's a sight ! 
 do come and look at Lizzie Neville's bonnet and 
 cloak ! '' 
 
 Down they rushed. The whole twenty girls 
 tried them on, one after the other. 
 
 As to me, I took the wisest course I could have 
 adopted under such disagreeable circumstances. 
 I said I knew my dress was ridiculous to a 
 degree, but I was obliged to wear what my 
 aunts chose ; and I joined in the laugh as each 
 girl in turn strutted round the room in my 
 garments ; but in my heart I deeply resented 
 the unfeeling harshness which had exposed me 
 to such humiliation. 
 
 The shouts of laughter brought down Miss 
 Hardy — even she could not keep her counte- 
 nance when she saw Annie Langton parading 
 up and down in that absurd bonnet and cloak ; 
 but she felt for me, and repressing her merri- 
 ment as much as she could, said gently, 
 
 " Young ladies, it is half-past twelve, and high 
 time Miss Constance De Vere and Miss Elizabeth 
 Neville returned home ; do not detain them.''
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 49 
 
 Had my aunts been unable to afford me better 
 clothes no angry feelings would have been 
 excited in my mind, however mortifying this 
 peculiar dress might have been ; but though 
 they were always harping on the great expense 
 my father's family entailed upon them, and 
 telling me that but for their kindness I should 
 be in the workhouse, there were no signs of 
 penury in their establishment. We lived in a 
 large well-furnished house. We never sat down 
 to dinner without a man-servant out of livery 
 waiting behind my aunt Diana's chair ; and 
 there were always three sorts of wine on the 
 table ; and besides the man-servant, whose wages 
 were forty pounds a-year, they kept a lady's 
 maid, a house-rnaid, and a good cook. 
 
 They did much for my brothers and sisters ; 
 they gave me a home, but they made me feel 
 the obligations I owed them so heavily as to 
 obliterate them. People have no right to expect 
 gratitude from those whom they humiliate and 
 degrade. A couple of plain print frocks, made 
 as they were worn, would have cost little, and 
 prevented the angry feelings that rose in my 
 heart towards the relatives who made me a 
 public laughing-stock. 
 
 The quizzing of my schoolfellows was not the 
 only mortification to which my unlucky dress 
 subjected me. As the abominable cloak would 
 only meet round my neck, it described a semi- 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 50 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 circle round my head, or streamed like a flag in 
 the wind, at right angles with my neck, on 
 boisterous days ; and was the jest of the whole 
 village. 
 
 ^^ I know some of you were well enough to go 
 out to-day," said Mrs. De Vere, when we had all 
 been laid up with colds, and she called to en- 
 quire after us, "for I saw the Neville banner 
 float past the window.^' 
 
 *' Ship ahoy ! ship ahoy ! " shouted Captain 
 St. Maur another day as I walked by his cot- 
 tage, on my way home from school. I turned 
 unwillingly, and saw him standing breathless, 
 and laughing, at the garden gate. 
 
 "I saw J our flag, Lizzie," said he; "but the 
 fair Elizabeth is such a fast-sailing clipper, I 
 could scarcely get to the gate in time to hail her. 
 Here, take this book with my compliments to 
 your aunt Joan, and tell her that I and Mrs. 
 St. Maur are coming to drink tea with her this 
 evening, if she is not otherwise engaged." 
 
 I took all this bantering in very good part. 
 It was my aunts I felt angry with. Moreover, 
 I verily believed our neighbours wanted to shame 
 them into dressing me decently. IViey were 
 parents. My mother, perhaps, might have said 
 many a harsh thing to me, and given me many 
 a cuff in a passion, had I lived at home ; but 
 she would not have outraged my feelings by 
 making me a public mockery. I am sure that
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 51 
 
 had I appeared in any town streets in that garb, 
 I should have been hooted at as a mad woman. 
 Let any one imagine for a moment the bitter 
 humiliation it was to a young girl just flushing 
 into womanhood, and conscious that, if she had 
 not good features, a rare delicacy of complexion 
 made many a passing glance rest lovingly on her, 
 to be thus dressed. 
 
 My aunt Diana took no notice of any jokes 
 regarding my attire ; I wore that bonnet and 
 cloak all winter ; but one day in spring I came 
 home from school as usual at twelve o'clock, 
 mounted to my room, pulled off my things, laid 
 them on my bed, and went down stairs to 
 luncheon. 
 
 When I went up to my room to get ready for 
 afternoon school, both cloak and bonnet were 
 gone. 
 
 I went down to the drawing-room. 
 
 " I can't find my cloak and bonnet, aunt Dian ; 
 I left them on my bed when 1 went down to 
 lunch." 
 
 *' Can't you put on your shawl and your 
 other bonnet ?" was the sole response vouch- 
 safed. 
 
 I comprehended, and bounded gladly upstairs. 
 This shawl, which I was so glad to be allowed to 
 wear — my only one — was an old nursery shawl 
 of my mother's. She had accidentally left it 
 behind her, on a visit to Hilton, and my aunts 
 
 E 2 
 
 
 Of
 
 52 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 made it over to me. It had once been white 
 cloth, with crimson and green leaves painted on 
 it ; but it had been washed so often, that the 
 ground resembled an old Hannel petticoat in 
 colour and texture, and the flowers were so 
 faded as to be rather a deformity than an orna- 
 ment. 
 
 How Sir Eaoul Beaucharap^s two powdered 
 footmen used to look at one another and snigger, 
 as in my four-year-old brown, sunburnt, leghorn 
 bonnet, with its faded three-year-old light blue 
 ribbons, the flannel-petticoat shawl, and the 
 gored white gown, with its two rows of crevees, 
 I shily and awkwardly followed my aunt Joan 
 into the library, the door of which the stately 
 butler was holding open ; and saw around fair 
 dames and graceful maidens, arrayed in the 
 very height of fashion ; and had, perhaps, a 
 chair handed me by a nobleman. 
 
 I liked and loved Anne and Melusina Beau- 
 champ, who treated me like a younger sister, 
 instead of looking down upon me as grown-up 
 young women sometimes do on school-girls ; but 
 there was nothing I dreaded more than the 
 purgatory of passing that row of grinning foot- 
 men, and encountering the half careless, half 
 supercilious air of their master's guests. 
 
 Venus herself would have looked and felt 
 awkward, so attired, and introduced among 
 fashionable, well-dressed women. I was natur-
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 53 
 
 ally sensitive and shy : the consciousness that T 
 looked ridiculous made me nervous and awk 
 ward. There was no ease, no freedom in my 
 movements ; and this drew on me hourly steru 
 reproofs from my aunt Diana, and sarcasms 
 from my aunt Joan. They laid all that was 
 outre in my appearance to my obstinate deter- 
 mination to be awkward, when they ought to have 
 laid it io my dress. They continually conipiired 
 me with my schoolfellow, Constance De Vere, 
 a YQYj pretty girl, who was always dressed with 
 remarkable elegance. 
 
 ^^ Only look, Joan " — my aunt Diana, who 
 sat opposite the door, would say — "how that 
 girl enters a room !" 
 
 "Go back, Elizabeth," said Miss Joan, "and 
 try if you cannot enter a room like a young lady." 
 
 I obeyed. 
 
 "That is worse still; try again." 
 
 " Once more." 
 
 " Go again, and don't stick out your knees 
 and move your limbs so awkwardly. V.'hy can't 
 you move gracefully, like Constance De Yere ?" 
 
 "Oh! it's no use! It's all lost time, Joan. 
 She does not want to improve," said my aunt 
 Diana. 
 
 In a few moments she turned round — "Joan, 
 look!" 
 
 " I see. Sister, you know she will poke. 
 Elizabeth, come here."
 
 54 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 I came to the end of her table. 
 
 " Do you know, Elizabeth, that you owe to 
 us the clothes you wear, your food, your shelter 
 from the weather? And what do we ask from 
 you in return ? — a little obedience and attention 
 to our wishes for your improvement — that you 
 sit straight on your chair, and that in walking 
 you should not stick out your knees, but move 
 gracefully. Look at your friend Constance. 
 She is younger than you are, but how well she 
 enters a room ! — how elegant she always looks ! 
 What prevents you looking like her ?'' 
 
 ^* My dress ! " thought I, but I did not dare 
 to say so. 
 
 " I ask you again, why you cannot look and 
 move like Constance de Vere ? '^ 
 
 What could I answer ? The graceful Con- 
 stance would have looked awkward in that short- 
 waisted, narrow gown, whose scantiness revealed 
 every motion of the limbs ; but I dared not say 
 this. I stood mute. 
 
 '' Go back to your seat,'' said my aunt, in 
 her tragedy voice. '' There is no doing any- 
 thing with you. You are utterly ungrateful 
 and heartless." 
 
 I began to cry. 
 
 " Joan ! Joan ! " said my aunt Theodosia, 
 " there are the Beauchamps coming.'' 
 
 '' The Beauchamps ? Now, pray, Elizabeth, 
 give over crying, and let us have no more of
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 55 
 
 this. You had better run up to your own room 
 and bathe your eyes, and then come down ; for 
 you know Anne and Melusina will ask after 
 you. You know, my dear, I only spoke for 
 your good." 
 
 I ran upstairs, and bathed my face, and tried 
 to compose myself. Before I could do so, my 
 aunt Theodosia was sent up to fetch me. 
 
 " Lizzie, my dear, Anne and Melusina want 
 to see you. Pray, make haste and come down. 
 Oh, dear ! " she added, sitting down in my chair 
 while 1 dried my face and re-arranged my hair, 
 *^how I do wish Joan and Diana would give 
 over lecturing ; I declare I'm as tired of their 
 interminable scolds as you can be. Whether 
 you sit or stand, come in or go out, it's all the 
 same. Now, do make haste, or we shall have 
 Joan coming up to fetch us ; and when the 
 Beauchamps are gone, we'll go out for a long 
 walk, and not come in again till your aunts 
 have recovered their temper. There, now you'll 
 do. Come — come." 
 
 " Why, Lizzie, you look grave ! What's the 
 matter ? " cried Melusina, giving me a hearty 
 shake of the hand as I followed aunt The into 
 the room. 
 
 " Yes, she's quite pale to-day," said Lady 
 Beauchamp, doing the like. ^^ Joan, what have 
 you been doing to her ? " 
 
 " I think the poor child has been bending too
 
 56 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 closely over her work/' said my aunt Joan, in a 
 tender voice, as she caressingly patted my cheek. 
 ^' My dear, you must have a walk." 
 
 ^' She's going to walk with me to Linton," 
 interjected my aunt Theodosia, glad to settle 
 the affair while the Beauchamps were there. 
 
 ^^ Oh, indeed ! I did not know it. It is a 
 beautiful day, and the walk will do her good. 
 I know it is her favourite," observed my aunt, 
 blandly. 
 
 When my brothers came on a visit, my aunt 
 Joan continually pointed out to them my mani- 
 fold defects — always ending her discourse by 
 asking *^ why I did not look like Melusina or 
 Constance de Yere, or other young girls ? " 
 
 '' Ah ! why, indeed ? " echoed Tom. 
 
 They knew nothing about the shape or make 
 of gowns, or whether a bonnet was fashionable 
 or the reverse — how should they, two rough 
 schoolboys as they were? But they could see 
 that I did look different to the De Yeres and 
 Beauchamps and Howards, and they believed it 
 was all my fault. They grew up in the persua- 
 sion that I was the most unamiabie girl in the 
 world. 
 
 As I tried to oblige them in every way, and 
 as at school — where a girl's temper is always 
 known — I was considered remarkably good- 
 humoured, this may be thought unnatural. Let 
 any one who doubts it turn to De Quincy's
 
 A FAMILY UISTORY. 57 
 
 autobiography, and read the tragic story of his 
 tutor's two half-idiot daughters, and the com- 
 ments that follow on the singular fact, ''that if 
 the heads of a family take a dislike to one 
 child, the other members invariably do the 
 same." 
 
 Twenty times a day, at the very least, ray 
 aunt Joan reminded me that I owed my bread 
 to her and Diana's charity — she always omitted 
 to speak of my aunt Theodosia's share in main- 
 taining me — but for w^hich I might be in the 
 workhouse ; for my mother could not keep the 
 five children she had without their help, much 
 less a sixth. *' The greatest sacrifi.ce I could 
 make would not be too much," she said, '' to 
 repay all they had done for me and my brothers 
 and sisters." 
 
 Even my placid aunt Theodosia lost all pa- 
 tience, and used to say to me in private, 
 
 " I think I pay for at least one-third of the 
 food you eat, Elizabeth, but I don't taunt you 
 with it. I wonder at Joan." 
 
 And I answered, " And therefore, aunt Theo- 
 dosia, I am grateful to you'^ 
 
 Indeed my life at this time was so bitter that, 
 but for my aunt Theodosia's kindness, and the 
 fact that I had never ten shillings in the world, 
 to pay travelling expenses, I should certainly 
 have run away, and tried to earn my bread by 
 servitude. I turned the plan over many times
 
 58 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 in my mind. I feared no one would take me 
 without a character, and that I might be forced 
 by want into crime. I endured on. 
 At last the crisis came.
 
 59 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 I WAS sixteen now, and universally reckoned a 
 pretty girl. A Mr. Tracy, who lived in the 
 neighbourhood, saw me. My waxy pink and 
 white complexion — my heauie du diahle, as my 
 aunt Joan called it — took his fancy ; and he 
 availed himself of every opportunity of meeting 
 me in my walks. He was not rich, but he pos- 
 sessed a modest competence ; and he was a man 
 of high birth, considerable talent, and un- 
 blemished character — a man to whom a wise 
 parent would have gladly and thankfully com- 
 mitted the happiness of a beloved child. He 
 was too honourable to make secret love to me ; 
 and he requested my aunt's permission to visit at 
 their house on my account. 
 
 He was rudtily refused by my aunt Joan. 
 
 ** He has but five hundred a year, even with his 
 profession," sneered she ; " and we've had plague 
 enough with poor Robert's children — we don't 
 want any more well-born beggars. Elizabeth has 
 a comfortable home here, if ghe knows when she
 
 60 A FAMILY HISTORr. 
 
 is well off ; and it's her duty, in return for the 
 benefits showered down upon her, to remain 
 single, and take care of me in mj old age. At 
 all events, if she does marry, it must be some 
 man of rank and fortune, who can benefit her 
 family. She has no right to consider herself only 
 in forming a connection." 
 
 '^ I think it would be better for her to marry. 
 I've always heard Mr. Tracy very highly spoken 
 of, and it would be a great thing to have her 
 under the protection of a good husband," said 
 my aunt Diana. 
 
 ^^ I wish to marry Mr. Tracy," I began ; but 
 I was interrupted tauntingly. 
 
 " Upon my word ! You are a coming young 
 lady !" cried my aunt Diana. 
 
 '^ Yes, indeed !" echoed my aunt Theodosia — 
 she who usually took my part. 
 
 " Oh ! you would like to marry, would you ?" 
 sneered my aunt Joan. 
 
 My cheeks burnt with shame ; my heart pal- 
 pitated ; I was shy and timid ; my aunt Joan 
 had thoroughly cowed me as a child ; I had not 
 nerve enough, not moral courage enough, to 
 reply what I felt — " I like Mr. Tracy ; he loves 
 me. You are always reproaching me with my 
 poverty, with my dependence upon you. Let 
 me marry and be independent of you. Do not 
 deprive me of the home offered me by a man I 
 love." This is what I ought to have said — but
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 61 
 
 I did not. Tears came into mj eyes — I hung 
 my head, and looked down on the carpet. 
 
 Having snubbed me for my impertinence and 
 forwardness in daring to have an opinion on a 
 subject that so deeply concerned my own hap- 
 piness, my aunt Diana began again. 
 
 *' She's a forward chit ! but, Joan, I advise 
 that Mr. Tracy's offer should be accepted." 
 
 " The thing is settled now. I refused Mr. 
 Tracy permission to visit her," said my aunt 
 Joan, in that low, softly modulated, yet arbitrary 
 tone which all the family knew indicated that 
 her mind was made up, and nothing should 
 change it. 
 
 Mr. Tracy left the country immediately, and 
 returned to South America. 
 
 ^^I shall always regret that you would not 
 let Elizabeth marry Mr. Tracy," said my aunt 
 Diana, as she gazed on my pale face some weeks 
 afterwards. 
 
 " Nonsense ! she has a good home here, and 
 everything done that can make her happy ; and 
 besides, the world would not have held her if 
 she had had a lover," replied my aunt Joan. 
 
 *' Still I am sorry, Joan ; I shall always re- 
 gret you decided so hastily." 
 
 *^ It's no use talking about it, Diana. The 
 thing is don^ now, and Mr. Tracy has left Eng- 
 land. I don't want Elizabeth to marry at all ; 
 still, I would give my consent if any very rjreat
 
 62 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 match offered — Mr. Beauchamp or Sir Everard 
 Graeme, for instance." 
 
 I heard with proud, resentful spirit. What ! 
 was I a bale of goods that she might trade off 
 to the best advantage, or keep in hand as she 
 liked ; to have no voice in a matter on which the 
 happiness or misery of my life depended ? Was 
 I to live on for ever this dreary existence ? 
 Never to know what happiness or love was but 
 in name ? To live my aunt Joan's slave — for I 
 was nothing better — till I was grey and old, or 
 be driven into a marriage with some fox-hunting 
 squire, who had no recommendation beyond his 
 old name and his broad acres ? She would not 
 let me marry Mr. Tracy, a man who had some 
 aim in life — whom I could have looked up to 
 and revered : and what was the chief aim and 
 end of Sir Everard Graeme's and Mr. Beau- 
 champ's existence ? 
 
 ^^ Preserving their game /" 
 
 So closes an essay of Carlyle's ; and so I 
 argued at seventeen, little knowing how great a 
 mind had expressed the same contempt for mere 
 shooting, fishing, fox-hunting squires before me. 
 In the society among which I occasionally went 
 out, the gentlemen usually congregated together, 
 and discussed game laws, poachers, coveys, and 
 covers ; the last hunting day, and all the pre- 
 vious famous runs for the last ten years ; leaving 
 the ladies to talk about patterns of needlework,
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 63 
 
 new books, or new flowers, as they chose. 
 
 I thought this unpolite. I also thought that 
 the reason they talked so much upon those par- 
 ticular subjects was, that they did not know how 
 to converse on any other. I compared them 
 with a few other men whose professions had 
 compelled them to mix in the world ; and the 
 comparison was by no means to the squires' 
 advantage. 
 
 I thought the life of a great lady vapid and 
 inane. As far as I could see, and I often stayed 
 with my aunt Joan in great houses, the ladies 
 had no higher aim in life than a ball or a bazaar, 
 a new gown, or matching two shades of worsted. 
 Their business seemed to be to dress nicely, to 
 move elegantly, to speak softly, and to sit on a 
 chair or sofa with some delicate bit of work in 
 their hands, as much drawing-room ornaments 
 as the china on the mantelpiece ; and I felt i 
 wanted life — actual, active, bustling life, with 
 its duties and cares, to exercise my energies. 
 I could not be content to be a languid fine lady. 
 
 ^^ That girl has no proper pride or spirit in 
 her," observed my aunt Joan, wrathfully, one 
 day. ** I do believe she would rather marry a 
 poor man with three or four hundred a year, 
 and live in one of those bow-windowed houses 
 opposite, like the Smiths, than marry Harry 
 Beauchamp, and be mistress of Beauchamp 
 Abbey."
 
 64 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 ^' Yes, aunt Joan — a great deal rather, for I 
 don't like Harry Beauchamp." 
 
 " Yon don't know what you like. He never 
 made love to you ? " 
 
 *^ I don't wish him to." 
 
 *^You are a most extraordinary young lady, 
 Elizabeth. When I was your age I should 
 have endeavoured to attract any young man in 
 Harry Beauchamp's position in life, who had 
 been thrown so much in my way, as he is in 
 yours." 
 
 I thought of him who was tossing on the 
 wide sea — thanks to her — looked furtively at my 
 dress, thinkino; how attractive I must be in that 
 garb, and replied with some asperity, 
 
 ^' I don't want to attract anybody." 
 
 '^ You never will." 
 
 " I don't care," I said aloud ; and I added, 
 mentally, '* for you wouldn't let me marry Mr. 
 Tracy when I did attract him." 
 
 The conversation dropped ; but the wrath was 
 brewed, and those three words set it fermenting. 
 Presently my aunt looked at me again, and 
 cried, angrily, 
 
 ** How you stoop ! " 
 
 *^ My back aches." 
 
 *' If it does, you can hold yourself straight." 
 
 I gave a sigh of utter weariness. 
 
 *^Do you mean to do as you are bid, and 
 conform to our wishes ? — or do you mean to go
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 65 
 
 out as a governess ? — for your mother can't keep 
 you.'' 
 
 " I should like to earn my own livelihood, 
 aunt Joan." 
 
 *' You would — would you ? " 
 
 " Yes, aunt, I have wished it a long time." 
 
 *' Very well. You shall have your wish." 
 
 My aunt turned ashy pale. She had not 
 meant to bring me to this. She talked of my 
 going out as a governess merely to frighten me ; 
 her real intention was to retain me as a humble 
 dependent, on whom she could vent her spleen 
 when she chose — but unintentionally she had 
 brought matters to a head. Pride would not 
 let her retract, and / did not wish to do so. 
 
 I felt that, do what I would, I could never 
 satisfy her imperious, exacting nature — not even 
 if I sacrificed my whole life to her, which I had 
 no thoughts of doing ; and I could not bear the 
 idea of passing my existence as I had passed 
 the last fourteen years, in storms of ceaseless 
 invective and reproach. It was better I should 
 go out into the world, and earn my own bread. 
 
 The thing was settled. 
 
 Mr. Tracy had been gone some months, and 
 I was one day sitting drawing, when my aunt 
 Diana, looking up from her knitting, said — 
 
 '' There's Mrs. Seton ! Elizabeth, let her 
 in!" 
 
 Now, our man-servant, having little to do, 
 
 VOL. I. F
 
 66 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 chose to do nothing, except bring in the meals, 
 trusted to my opening the door, or else one of 
 the maids doing it, and betook himself daily 
 to the skittle-ground opposite. I rose, as a 
 matter of course, and let Mrs. Seton in. She 
 gave me her hand, but she could not speak; her 
 face was convulsed, her eyes red with weeping. 
 I followed her into the room, and placed a chair 
 for her. She sat down, and, bursting into 
 tears, exclaimed — 
 
 " Oh ! Mrs. Neville, we have such sad news. 
 Mr. Tracy is dead ! " 
 
 I was bending over my drawing ; I let the 
 pencil fall from my hand, and turned round. 
 
 " Go on with your drawing, Elizabeth," said 
 my aunt Joan, in a cold, stern, menacing tone. 
 
 I did not heed — I scarcely heard. I sat still, 
 with my face turned to Mrs. Seton, breathless — 
 almost senseless. She did not see me, for her 
 back was towards me. 
 
 *' Go on with your drawing, Elizabeth !^^ re- 
 peated my aunt Joan, in a yet sterner voice 
 than before. 
 
 I laid my pencil down on the table ; I rose ; 
 I walked up to her; looked at her for an in- 
 stant, the reproach T dared not express in words 
 in my face, and passed out of the room. I 
 mounted to my chamber; I locked myself in. 
 I did not weep or cry — I was too stunned for 
 that. I believe but for my aunt's cruel speech
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 67 
 
 I should have fainted when Mrs. Seton spoke 
 those terrible words. I went to my bedroom 
 window, and stood where I had so often stood 
 to see him ride past — and now he was dead, I 
 should never see him pass again ! 
 
 I could not realize it. I pressed my brow 
 against the cold glass, to relieve the sense of 
 stunning, the confusion I felt. Then I dipt a 
 towel in water, and pushing aside my hair, 
 bathed my forehead. I cannot express my 
 feelings in words ; something within me seemed 
 to have given way ; I felt an inexpressible long- 
 ing to shrink together, to collapse, and fall — a 
 sense as if ray brain and my strength were both 
 failing, and in a few moments I should sink to 
 the ground and die. I wished to die. What 
 bad I to live for ? 1 went to the glass and 
 looked at myself. Was that I ? — not a tear 
 in my eyes — nothing in my face to mark that 
 for me all hope had died out of life — no trace of 
 this great storm that had ravaged all the green 
 fields, destroyed all spring buds, blighted all 
 summer promise. It was the same face that 
 had looked at me from it yesterday and this 
 morning — a little paler, a stony look about the 
 eyes — but that was all ; and yet, yesterday, this 
 morning, half an hour ago, I had been a warm, 
 hoping, loving girl — for in my secret soul I had 
 cherished the hope that Mr. Tracy would one 
 day return, and return to me ; and now it was 
 
 f2
 
 68 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 all over — he was dead — dead — and there was 
 no coming back from the grave. It seemed 
 to me as if the news which had made my heart 
 die within me should also have blasted my out- 
 ward appearance. In that moment of bitter 
 agony I should have felt actual pleasure if my 
 hair had turned white — if I had suddenly be- 
 come wrinkled, old, and withered in face as I 
 felt in heart ! And ic was through his love for 
 me that he had died — it was all my fault— my 
 aunt Joan's fault ! He had never talked of 
 going back to South America, till he was refused 
 permission to visit me — then he said he should 
 return ; and to his friends' arguments, that the 
 climate had injured his health before, he replied, 
 *' It did not signify — if he was thought too 
 poor to marry, and have any happiness in life, 
 he might as well die." And he was dead ! 
 
 It was her fault — her fault ! 
 
 What did / want with riches ? — what did /care 
 for rank ? I would have preferred Mr. Tracy, 
 with his five hundred a year, to any peer of the 
 realm with fifty thousand. What right had my 
 aunt to come between me and my happiness ? — 
 to doom me to a life of sorrow, and him to the 
 grave ? 
 
 A hand tried the lock of my door. I had 
 taken the precaution of fastening myself in. 
 
 '^ Open the door ; what have you locked it 
 for ?" said the arbitrary voice of my aunt Joan.
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 69 
 
 I opened it and confronted her. 
 
 ^' Well r 
 
 "What are you doing up here?" 
 
 ** I came up to my own room." 
 
 " Well, come down. What do you stav here 
 
 for r 
 
 '' I am coming presently." 
 
 There was something in my look that forbade 
 her to question further. She turned and went 
 downstairs, and, after a while, I followed her. 
 
 When I returned into the drawing-room I put 
 my drawing materials away ; no one asked 
 why I did so. I have no recollection of what I 
 did afterwards. All that day I walked about 
 like one in a dream. All that day my heart 
 seemed turned to stone. I breathed with diffi- 
 culty ; the air seemed thick and heavy, though 
 I knew it was not so, for I looked out and saw 
 the sky blue and bright, and light, fleecy clouds 
 floating along it ; and people walking about, 
 laughing and talking ; and the birds singing — as 
 if he was not dead — dead in a foreign land — 
 through her ! 
 
 Whenever I could I stole up to my bed-room. 
 Oh ! I longed so to cry, and I could not ; I felt 
 as if tears would relieve that dull aching pain in 
 my head and heart ; I longed to throw myself 
 on the ground, to grovel in the dust in my great 
 misery, and water it with my tears. 
 
 Whenever I thus stole away, before I had
 
 70 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 been many minutes alone in my room, one or 
 other of my aunts came up with the same 
 question, and looked at me with their curious 
 eyes — 
 
 ^' What are you doing here ?" And I replied, 
 
 ^^Well?'' in the same hard, dry, tearless 
 manner as before. 
 
 "Why don't you stay downstairs? Come 
 down." 
 
 *^rm coming presently." 
 
 I woidd not let them see my grief, if I could 
 help it. 
 
 I thought that day would never come to an 
 end. I have no recollection of anything that 
 was said or done in it, beyond my attempts to 
 get away to solitude, and their following me, 
 and compelling my return to the sitting-room. 
 Oh ! how the minutes seemed to stretch out to 
 hours — almost to years ! 
 
 But night came at last — always welcome as a 
 release from the constraint in which my aunt 
 Joan kept me — but never so welcome as now. 
 
 The usual salutations passed, and my aunt 
 Joan kissed me as usual — she was fond of 
 kissing ; her way of torturing was the worse to 
 bear, because she always pretended love for 
 those she was doing everything to wound and 
 injure ; and thus deprived her victims even of 
 pity. She would knowingly, of set purpose,
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 71 
 
 inflict on you the deadliest suffering, and Idss you 
 afterwards — like Judas. 
 
 She kissed me to-night, and I recoiled as 
 from the touch of a basilisk. 
 
 I got to my own room — I locked myself in. 
 But I knew her — I should not be left in peace. 
 I would wait as I had been forced to wait all 
 that day — no eye but God's should see my 
 agony. 
 
 As I expected, my door-handle was turned, 
 when I had been about a quarter of an hour in 
 my room. I went to the door, unlocked it, and 
 said in the same dry hard tone, 
 
 ^^ Well?'' 
 
 My aunt Joan^for it was she, of course — said 
 something — what, I do not remember ; it was 
 something wholly foreign to the question she 
 longed to put, and dared not — 
 
 ^' Did I grieve ? " 
 
 *^ Do you want anything?" I asked as I stood 
 with my hand upon the door-handle. 
 
 '* No — only to see if you were in bed." 
 
 ** Not yet, I am going — good night." 
 
 '^ Good night, my dear." 
 
 She went, and I locked myself in once 
 more. 
 
 I took off my shoes, that I might make no 
 suund, and then I walked up and down the 
 room. 
 
 Hours passed so. My candle burnt out, and
 
 72 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 I drew up my curtains and let the moonlight 
 into my room. 
 
 I sat on the window-sill and looked out. The 
 moon shimmered against the gate-way I had so 
 often watched him ride through — through which 
 I should never see him ride again. As I thought 
 this, my heart softened — I burst into tears. 
 
 I threw myself on the floor, and wept there 
 all that night. 
 
 I heard the maids get up the next morning 
 and come downstairs ; I heard John's heavy 
 step as he crossed the passage, and went lum- 
 bering down. Soon my aunts would be astir — I 
 should not be free even to weep. 
 
 Liston came to my door as usual, with hot 
 water; I told her to put it down outside, and I 
 would take it in presently. 
 
 " What ! are you up so soon. Miss Elizabeth ?'' 
 she said. 
 
 I did not want her to see my swollen eyelids, 
 my tear-stained face. I waited till I heard her 
 go as usual into my aunt Diana's room, and shut 
 the door after her ; then, very cautiously, I 
 opened my door and took it in. 
 
 I had no need to dress, for I had never un- 
 dressed ; but I bathed my eyes with the warm 
 water, to remove, if possible, the trace of tears ; 
 then I looked in my glass to see if any redness 
 of eyelid remained.
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 73 
 
 The face I saw in the glass startled me — it 
 was so pale, so wan, so death-white. 
 
 I must tumble my bed, or my aunts would 
 hear I had never slept upon it. I threw myself 
 on it, and lay there till I heard them go down 
 stairs, till I knew breakfast would be made. 
 
 Then I rose, pulled the clothes to one side, as 
 if I had just left it, held a wet towel a few 
 moments to my eyes, caught up my hair-brush, 
 and applied it vigorously to my cheeks. 
 
 They were sitting at table when I went in, 
 took my accustomed place, and said good 
 morning ; each raised her eyes, and looked at 
 me, but my chet-ks were red and glowing as 
 usual — how should they know it was with the 
 hair-brush ? 
 
 Food was nauseous to me ; but I forced some 
 down my throat for fear of questions. All my 
 care now was to conceal my grief — I guarded it 
 jealously, as something sacred, with which no 
 one had a right to intermeddle. 
 
 The only one from whom I could have borne 
 consolation was my aunt Theodosia, and she 
 was one who never saw beyond the surface. 
 She did not see that anything was the matter 
 with me. The other two did ; but I believe 
 they thought I had determined to keep my grief 
 a secret, and that it would be better for all 
 parties not to recognise it. I was young — it 
 would die in time.
 
 74 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 For a whole fortnight I strove hard to main- 
 tain a cold, indifferent, careless manner during 
 the day ; and at night I locked myself in my 
 own room, and lay on the floor and wept. I had 
 but one wish — to die and rejoin him. 
 
 So I lay one night,* when all at once a 
 strange thrill ran through bone and nerve ; a 
 spirit spoke to my spirit, and said, " Dry your 
 tears, sit up, cease to grieve, he is not dead — but 
 living ! '^ 
 
 I obeyed the voice ; I rose up, I drew up my 
 blind and looked out again ; the moon shone 
 white and bright, silvered over the path he used 
 to ride along when he came to visit the Setons, 
 and the leaves of the elm-trees in the field. 
 
 "Is he dead?" I asked of the still calm 
 night, and night made no reply ; but from my 
 heart rose up a voice. Something strange, in- 
 explicable — something that on rare occasions 
 has warned me of good or evil to those distant 
 ones with whom my spirit was in strong sym- 
 pathy — replied now, 
 
 " He is not dead — he lives. Cease to grieve.'' 
 
 I dried my eyes, and I said, 
 
 '* He is not dead, I feel — but is he dead to 
 me f Will he ever return ? Will he ever 
 marry me ? " 
 
 But there came no response. 
 
 How strange is life, how full of mysteries ! What 
 
 * True.
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 75 
 
 hidden agency reveals to us one thing which we 
 passionately desire to know, and withholds from 
 us the reply to another about which we are 
 equally anxious? All I know is, that on other 
 occasions beside this, a mysterious voice, heard 
 in the depths of thought, inaudible to mortal 
 ears, in the midst of mirth and gaiety, when 
 least thought of, has proclaimed to me the ill- 
 ness or death of those who were dear to me. I 
 have seen a stranger for the first time, and felt 
 intuitively she would be the wife of a person 
 whom then she had never seen, nor was appa- 
 rently the least likely to see, since they lived in 
 different counties, and had no mutual friends 
 — nothing to bring them together. Two. years 
 afterwards they did meet — and married. 
 
 But these revelations — always true — come 
 unsought, unwished for. When I have not been 
 thinking of these absent friends, but of some- 
 thing very different, a spirit seizes me, like the 
 Delphian priestess, and puts into my mouth a 
 prophecy. 
 
 I was so convinced the voice in my heart 
 spoke truth, that I undressed, went to bed, and 
 slept a long sweet sleep. But for it, I believe 
 the violence of my grief would have actually 
 killed me. 
 
 It did injure my health greatly. I lost my 
 brilliant complexion ; I became yellow and faded. 
 Every acquaintance we had asked what was the
 
 76 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 matter with me, and my aunt Joan's rage and 
 mortification was boundless. She perfectly hated 
 me for having grown ugly ; for having dared to 
 love and grieve, without asking her permission 
 — against her declared will. 
 
 The Setons went into the same mourning they 
 would have worn for a brother ; for Mr. Tracy's 
 worth was recognized and honoured by every 
 one except my aunt Joan — she saw no merit 
 that was not set in gold, or circled by a coronet. 
 Ambition to rise to the same rank as that in 
 which her ancestors had moved had ruled her all 
 her life. The lover who had jilted her was an 
 earl's son, and she grieved fully as much for the 
 rank he would have conferred on her as for him- 
 self. When grey hairs and increasing years told 
 her she could not hope to make a brilliant mar- 
 riage herself, she looked to me to succeed where 
 she had failed. She intended me to marry some 
 great man, of whose house she should thus, 
 through me, become virtually mistress. 
 
 Her aim was to reduce me to utter, unques- 
 tioning submission, to the blindest obedience, so 
 that when she found an eligible match for me I 
 should accept it at her bidding ; and then, she 
 should live with me, and manage my house, and 
 my husband, and me, through him. If I of- 
 fended her, his anger was to be my punishment. 
 
 To this end, she would not allow me to form, 
 or rather to express, an opinion of my own — no,
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 77 
 
 not about a character in a book, or the colour of 
 a piece of ribbon. I was to see with her eyes, 
 hear with her ears ; to accept her taste and rea- 
 son as my guides, and not presume to make the 
 smallest use of my own, but consider it a mortal 
 sin even to doubt anything that slie advanced. 
 
 She meant to rule me as she had ruled my 
 poor father, at the cost of his happiness and 
 his wife^s. 
 
 To this end she left no means untried. She 
 used to talk to me by the hour of the beauty of 
 self-sacrifice, and say that my duty was not to 
 consider myself, in the least, in marrying, but to 
 make such a match as would enable me to benefit 
 my family ; to push my brothers on in the world, 
 and enable my sisters to form brilliant alliances 
 among the men they would meet at my house-s- 
 not to entertain school-girlish, frivolous ideas of 
 marrying for love ! 
 
 If I did not marry at all, that did not signify. 
 I could always remain at Hilton while my aunts 
 Diana and Theodosia lived ; and as at their 
 death she would be left alone in the world, it 
 would then be my duty to remain single, to 
 take care of her in her old age. All this time, 
 while so coolly requiring from me the sacrifice of 
 my life, she repudiated the idea that I had the 
 slightest claim upon her for anything ; and said 
 my mother's conduct in writing to desire she 
 would provide for me was little short of absolute
 
 78 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 insanity, as I could not have even the shadow of 
 a right to help from her, and had to thank her 
 charity that I was not in the workhouse. 
 
 I was of a generous and affectionate temper. 
 Had she shown me kindness — had she appealed 
 to my love — I was capable of sacrificing the 
 dearest wishes of my heart ; but I was not one 
 to be coerced into a mode of action against which 
 both my feelings and my judgment revolted. 
 
 She told me how my cousin Joanna, daughter 
 of my great-uncle, the Dean of Hereford, had 
 an estate of three thousand a-year left her when 
 she was five-and-twenty, and never saw it, or 
 enjoyed the revenues, till her father's death, 
 when she was turned forty, because he was 
 offended that anyone should have presumed to 
 make his daughter independent of him while he 
 yet lived. 
 
 And she pointed out to me, as still more worthy 
 of admiration, the gentle character of his young- 
 est daughter, my cousin Araminta, who was 
 thought by everybody to be a fool as long as 
 her sister Joanna lived ; but who turned out, on 
 her sister's death, to have plenty of sense, and 
 to be perfectly capable of managing her own 
 large property, though her extreme gentleness 
 had made her succumb in everything to her 
 sister during her lifetime. 
 
 The beauty of these examples was lost upon 
 me. I knew from my aunts themselves that the
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 79 
 
 Dean was a most violent, unjust, unreasonable 
 old man. I had often, in their conversations 
 with each other, heard them style him " an old 
 tyrant ; " and though I loved my gentle cousin, 
 I thought there was no necessity for allowing 
 herself to be considered a fool to please an 
 imperious elder sister, or aunt either ; so 1 re- 
 plied, 
 
 *^ Joanna had three thousand a-year of her 
 own, of which she was mistress, at least after 
 her father^s death ; and I do not see why 
 Araminta should not have managed her own 
 property, as Joanna managed hers." 
 
 *' You do not see ! — you do not see the beauty 
 of that perfect sacrifice of self? Why, she 
 had very good abilities, and, until Joanna died, 
 everybody — even her own family — thought her 
 a fool, because she never expressed a will or 
 wish of her own." 
 
 ^' Well, aunt Joan, I think that was rather 
 foolish. I think she might have been very 
 kind and amiable to Joanna, and done all she 
 could to make her happy, without allowing 
 herself to be treated and thought of as a fool." 
 
 *' But Joanna was like her lather, the Dean, 
 a very proud, high-spirited woman, determined 
 to have everything her own way. Araminta 
 must either have yielded as absolutely as she 
 did, or quarrelled with her." 
 
 " I don't see that, aunt Joan. However, I
 
 80 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 should have managed my own affairs, and left 
 Joanna to manage hers ; and if she chose to 
 quarrel with me for taking the same freedom 
 she used herself, it would have been her fault, 
 not mine." 
 
 " Joan,'' remarked my clear-sighted aunt 
 Diana, *' you will never get that girl to think as 
 you wish her. You may as well give it up." 
 
 '' Oh, yes, I shall," responded my aunt Joan ; 
 ** she will see and appreciate the beauty of 
 sacrifice in time." 
 
 '^Not after your fashion, aunt Joan," I 
 thought. *^ I can see the beauty of a young 
 lovely woman devoting her life to the care of a 
 sick invalid husband — of a mother giving her 
 last crust to her child, and dying herself of 
 hunger — but I see no peculiar merit in passing 
 for a fool to gratify an imperious sister, or to 
 satisfy an exacting, arbitrary aunt." 
 
 That tack not answering, my aunt would try 
 another. She would come and stand beside me, 
 push my hair over my forehead, and remark it 
 wanted softening, it had no expression. 
 
 ''■ There is no place where the soul sits, as 
 there is in yours and mine, Diana," said she, 
 touching the space just above the nose, between 
 the eyebrows, where the two sisters had a very 
 remarkable indentation — in my aunt Joan's you 
 could have laid your little finger. 
 
 " She would look best in caps. My dear, if
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 81 
 
 you marry Harry Beaucliamp, you shall have 
 half-a-dozen beautiful lace caps ; they would 
 become you so ; a cap softens the harshness of 
 your face. I will not mind expending a hundred 
 pounds on your trousseau when that day comes/' 
 
 " It never will come/' I answered ; ** I don't 
 want Harry Beauchamp, and he don't want me." 
 
 '• You don't take pains to make him like you. 
 You turn away whenever he addresses you. If 
 you see him at a distance, and possibly can, you 
 walk out of his way to avoid even speaking to 
 him. Other young women would seek a man 
 of his rank and fortune, if they were, as you 
 are, his sisters' intimate friend. His sisters 
 like you — that is a great thing in your favour ; 
 and his father will never object, I am satisfied, 
 to any one Harry likes." 
 
 " I don't like Harry Beauchamp, and I 
 never will marry him, even if he asks me," I 
 answered. 
 
 ^' Oh, dear ! oh, dear! " said my aunt, in her 
 tragedy voice, *' it's grievous to hear a young 
 girl so obstinate. Do you mean, Elizabeth — ? " 
 
 '^ Ring the bell for candles, Joan, and let us 
 have tea, and an end to all this," said my aunt 
 Diana ; *'you know the proverb, ^ a wilful man 
 maun hae his way ; ' so, I suppose, must a wilful 
 lass." 
 
 Meanwhile, as time passed on, the result of 
 
 YOL. I. G
 
 82 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 my secret grieving became daily more obvious. 
 However much she wished it, my aunt Joan 
 could not shut her eyes to the fact that I was 
 grown pale, thin, and hollow-eyed, and that 
 there was every day less chance of my attracting 
 anyone. 
 
 Every conversation she held with me for the 
 purpose of bringing me round to her views had 
 diametrically the opposite effect. She seemed 
 to me to be only adding another rivet to the 
 chains that were already eating into my very 
 flesh, and that I longed to throw off entirely. 
 
 The more she talked about the beauty of self- 
 sacrifice, the more she assured me that, " if I 
 married Harry Beauchamp, or any other person 
 in a proper rank of life, and with an ample 
 fortune, she would come and live with me, and 
 help me to manage my house" — which I knew 
 meant managing it for me — the more irrepres- 
 sible became my desh^e to get away from her 
 for ever — to work for my own living, to be free 
 to marry, or not to marry, as I saw fit ; and 
 when married, to have only my husband to 
 please, and not to have my love for him made 
 the means of keeping me in her thraldom. 
 
 Well I knew how she would punish me if I 
 presumed to assert an opinion of my own, even 
 about the colour of a gown. I knew she would 
 flatter my husband into thinking her perfection, 
 as she had my poor flither ; and if I chanced to
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 83 
 
 offend her, take no apparent notice, but be more 
 than commonly endearing and aff*ectionate in 
 manners to me in his sight, and secretly turn 
 his heart from me, as she had turned my father's 
 from my mother. I would rather have given up 
 the man I most loved than had her the inmate 
 of my home. I dreaded and loathed her. 
 
 Our neighbours called, and wondered what 
 ailed me, and why I had lost my rosy cheeks. 
 Then my aunt Joan, who had been lecturing 
 and scolding me just before they came in, 
 would fondly stroke my hair, or pat my face, 
 and sav, 
 
 *' Yes, indeed, the poor child does look far 
 from well; I think we must send her from 
 home for change of air. I can't think what 
 ails her?" 
 
 But as soon as they were gone she would break 
 out into violent invective against my ingratitude 
 for choosing to fret and grow ugly, when every- 
 thing was done that could be done to make me 
 happy, my aunt Diana joining in the reproach, 
 till at last my aunt Theodosia would rise in a 
 pet, saying, 
 
 " You tiresome girl, why can^t you do as your 
 aunts want you? I'm sick of this contention. 
 Do go and put on your things, and let us go 
 out walking." 
 
 And I gladly threw aside my book or work, 
 and ran upstairs, leaving her saying a few 
 
 G 2
 
 84 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 words ; what, I knew not, but I guessed — 
 threatening she would leave them if these cease- 
 less scoldings went on. 
 
 When we got outside the house she would 
 
 say, 
 
 " Lizzy, I was forced to seem to join with 
 them, or I could not have got you away, my 
 dear. Now we'll go out into the fields, and 
 stay till dinner time ; I hope by that time 
 they'll not be quite so cross. It's really 
 dreadful ! '' 
 
 Those walks and the night watches were all I 
 had of peace. 
 
 At last my aunt Diana said, 
 
 '^ Joan, it was settled long ago, I thought, 
 that the girl should go out as a governess ; let 
 her have her will, and go." 
 
 " She shall ! '' responded my aunt Joan, bit- 
 terly.
 
 85 
 
 CHAPTER lY. 
 
 My aunt Joan was in the habit of paying a 
 round of visits to friends living in tlie neigh- 
 bourhood of London every spring. She went 
 this year as usual, telling me, before she set off, 
 that if I still desired to go out as a governess 
 she would inquire among them for a situation 
 for me. I thanked her, and said I hoped she 
 would hear of one soon. 
 
 Shortly after her departure my aunt Theodosia 
 received an invitation to visit a married niece, 
 which she accepted. 
 
 *' I must have a new shawl, and a gingham 
 gown to travel in : we'll go to Nicholson's and 
 look at some," said she. 
 
 We went and tossed over a pile of goods, as 
 ladies generally do ; and after selecting a shawl 
 for herself, my aunt The picked out a few of the 
 cheapest, and turning to me, said, 
 
 *' I'm as sick of the sight of that old painted 
 rag as I was of ' the Neville banner;' so now, 
 Lizzie, choose for yourself. I intend to give 
 you a new shawl and a gingham gown, and per-
 
 86 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 haps, now your aunt Joan is gone, we may be 
 able to persuade your aunt Diana to let you 
 wear them.'' 
 
 She spoke doubtfully, because my mother and 
 various other relations had, at different times, 
 sent me dresses as presents ; but my aunt Diana 
 had invariably taken possession of them, and 
 locked them up in her store-room, whence they 
 never re-appeared. One single exception there 
 was. When Lady Beauchamp, who was our 
 cousin, came into the room one day with a paper 
 parcel in her hand, and, unfolding it, said, 
 
 " Now, Mrs. Neville, IVe brought Lizzie a 
 batiste gown, and I expect to see her in it the 
 very next time she comes to the Abbey." 
 
 I was permitted to have it made up. 
 
 Bright coloured shawls were then in vogue. 
 I chose a pretty apple-green one, and a grey 
 and lilac gingham. Aunt Theodosia had one off 
 the same piece. 
 
 " I shall give you enough for two deep 
 flounces, Lizzie," she said ; '^ I am determined 
 that for once you shall look like other people." 
 
 When the parcel came home she unfolded it, 
 and gave me my shawl and dress out. My aunt 
 Diana came near, took the gingham out of my 
 hands, and looked at it and at me, puckering up 
 her lips with a curious expression ; then she 
 said, 
 
 " It's neat, certainly. Til lock it up with the
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 87 
 
 others. She can take the shawl upstairs, and 
 wear it." 
 
 ^' But, sister, I bought her the gown to wear 
 too, and I hope you'll let her have it made up." 
 
 ^^ Liston will have enough to do to get your 
 things ready this week and next, Theodosia, and 
 the next week is washing week, and after that / 
 want a gown making." She tucked the dress 
 under her arm and carried it off. 
 
 " There never was such a woman as your 
 aunt Diana," said my aunt Theodosia, queru- 
 lously. ** She whips up everything, and takes 
 it to that storeroom of hers; and once there, 
 nothing ever comes out. I daren't say any 
 more to her, but I did hope she would let you 
 have this gown made up when I asked her." 
 
 In a fortnight aunt Theodosia left us. 
 
 *' Well, Lizzie, now you and I are left to our- 
 selves," said my aunt Diana, as the chaise drove 
 from the door, ^* we must try and be good com- 
 pany to one another. I daresay we shall get on 
 very well together." 
 
 1 opened my eyes wide. Were these bland 
 words addressed to me ? 
 
 The washing week over, my aunt Diana sent 
 me to Nicholson's to choose her a new silk gown. 
 I chose a rich, dark, purple silk, which suited 
 her fair complexion ; she was almost as fair as I
 
 88 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 was then myself. It pleased her, and it was 
 made up. 
 
 *^ Only, aunt Diana," said I, growing bolder 
 as the lioness grew tamer, " you must not wear 
 such ugly cap-ribbons with it." 
 
 "And, pray, what cap-ribbons do you wish 
 me to wear ? " 
 
 " Pearly white. They suit your complexion, 
 especially when you wear that gown." 
 
 " Humph ! Well, I want some cap-ribbons. 
 Liston is going to trim me three caps. You 
 chose the gown well; you may exercise your 
 taste now on the cap-ribbons. Be off with you 
 to Nicholson's. I want seven yards." 
 
 I went, marvelling at my own audacity, and 
 her unwonted gentleness. 
 
 When I returned I found her unpicking a 
 gown, and she asked me to help her, which I 
 very willingly did. She cared little about dress, 
 as she scarcely ever went out of doors, and never 
 possessed more than three gowns at one time, 
 which she denominated " Belle, Beauty, and 
 Scrub." Scrub had been given to her maid on 
 the purchase of the purple silk, and now Beauty 
 was to be turned and degraded into Scrub. 
 Alas! other beauties besides my aunt Diana's 
 gowns undergo that sad fate in this work-a-day 
 world. 
 
 All this time not a word of my dress. I 
 never thought of it ; graver thoughts filled my
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 89 
 
 head. Besides, it was in the store-room, and the 
 case, therefore, was hopeless. Probably, had I 
 begged for it I should never have had it. 
 
 But as I did not, down came my aunt Diana, 
 on the morning after Beauty's renovation, with 
 three of my locked-up gown-pieces in her hands, 
 and desired me to choose which 1 would have 
 made up first, and how I would have it made. 
 Of course I chose aunt Theodosia's gift, and was 
 sent upstairs to give my own orders respecting 
 it, and told to put the other two in my drawers 
 until the first was done. 
 
 They were all three made up like other peo- 
 ple's, one after the other. 
 
 They were merely plain ginghams, but they 
 were quiet in colour, and looked like a gentle- 
 woman's morning dresses ; and I believe I was 
 more elated by their possession than any other 
 girl ever was by her first silk gown. 
 
 Next, an evening dress came out of the store- 
 room, and that also was made. 
 
 Then I was ordered to select a new straw 
 bonnet for myself. *^ Wonders,'' I thought, 
 " will never cease !" 
 
 But that was not the greatest wonder, nor the 
 pleasantest. My aunt Diana's manner towards 
 me had utterly, entirely changed. She treated 
 me with gentleness and tenderness, and seemed 
 to find happiness in giving me pleasure. 
 
 Whether it was that, now I was seventeen,
 
 90 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 she thought the season for probation was over, 
 and considered me entitled to be treated like a 
 woman, or that she pitied me for the disappoint- 
 ment of my young dream about Mr. Tracy, and 
 thought I had been harshly used by my aunt 
 Joan in that affair or that she saw my temper 
 to be one that was more easily governed by 
 kindness than severity, I cannot say; but as 
 long as she lived she never resumed her former 
 harsh manner towards me, nor ever said an un- 
 kind word to me, unless instigated to it by my 
 aunt Joan. 
 
 There were deep wells of tenderness in that 
 rugged soil, and one of them now gushed up 
 for me ; and green grass and pleasant flowers 
 sprung up on what had been a blank, dreary, 
 desolate waste. 
 
 ** Well, Lizzie, you are not so very unhappy 
 with the old tigress, after all?" said she, one 
 day. 
 
 I laughed. Really, our days glided along so 
 peacefully, so harmoniously, that if I had not 
 known my aunt Joan would return, I should 
 never have desired to leave Hilton. I forgot 
 the '^Neville Banner," and all former annoy- 
 ances, in her present kindness, and tried to 
 please her in every way — and she was pleased. 
 
 ^* 1 don't see,'' said she one day, ** why we 
 should not go a-visiting and enjoy ourselves, as 
 well as the others ? We will go to Barton."
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 91 
 
 She had not slept out of her own house for 
 two years. 
 
 We went to Barton, and to Lady Graeme's, 
 and, under the influence of kindness and sym- 
 pathy, the light came back to my eyes, the 
 colour to my cheeks. I did not resemble the 
 cast-down, pale girl my aunt Joan had left be- 
 hind her. 
 
 When we returned home at last, aunt Diana 
 sent me to call on Lady Beauchamp. 
 
 The Miss Beauchamps were sitting at the open 
 window, embroidering collars. ^' Who is this ?" I 
 heard Anne say, as I walked up towards the house. 
 
 '^ Why, it is— E — liz — a — beth ! " cries Me- 
 lusina, prolonging every syllable of my name in 
 an accent of surprise ; ^' Elizabeth ! and dressed 
 like other people ! Come in, Lizzie, no need to 
 go through the ceremony of being shewn in by 
 Harrison and Co.,'' said she, advancing to meet 
 and lead me through the open window into the 
 library. ^' I am glad to see you looking so well, 
 and dressed so nicely ;" and the good-hearted girl 
 took both my hands, and shook them affec- 
 tionately. Anne rose, and gave me an equally 
 kind greeting, when Melusina released me ; and 
 then they made me take off my large new hat, 
 and admired the pale pink ribbon which trimmed 
 it, and congratulated me again on looking like 
 other people. 
 
 Now, when I went in to luncheon with them,
 
 92 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 I was not ashamed to pass their servants, or sit 
 down among their guests ; mj toilette was of 
 the simplest, cheapest materials ; but I felt now 
 that I looked like a gentlewoman. 
 
 When I returned home, my aunt Diana asked 
 me what the Beauchamps said of my appearance. 
 I told her they approved of it, but withheld their 
 congratulations on my '' being dressed like other 
 people," for I thought that would annoy her. 
 
 But these pleasant days came to an end. My 
 aunt Theodosia returned home ; of that I was 
 glad. Not so when my aunt Joan wrote to fix 
 the day for her return also. 
 
 My aunt Diana's fair cheeks flushed with plea- 
 sure. Joan was her darling child ; on her she 
 had centred all the love of her vehement, pas- 
 sionate nature. She sat with the letter in her 
 hands some time, enjoying the happiness of 
 knowing she held it, and that it was the pledge 
 of her child-sister's early return. Then she 
 locked it up, and went upstairs to her own room — 
 I believe to pray for her safe journey. 
 
 To me, my aunt Joan was harsh, unkind, and 
 unjust ; but she had her good qualities. She 
 was gratefully dutiful to the elder sister who had 
 brought her up, and — as I often heard myste- 
 riously hinted — made some great and extraordi- 
 nary sacrifice for her sake. What this was I 
 could not learn — even my aunt Theodosia, the 
 only one I dared to question, replied,
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 93. 
 
 " Don't ask questions. Young chits like you 
 must not expect to be made acquainted with the 
 affairs of your elders." 
 
 The love between the two sisters was bound- 
 less on the part of my elder aunt ; returned as a 
 duty by my younger one. I say returned as a 
 duty, because my aunt Joan's heart did not seem 
 in her home. She was always talking of the sa- 
 crifice she had made in complying with my aunt 
 Diana's wishes, and settling down in that remote 
 country village. For a short period in her life 
 she had mixed in the highest circles ; and that 
 time of glory was ever looked back to and spoken 
 of with fond regret. She loved to talk of the 
 dukes and duchesses, earls and countesses, whose 
 names had once figured on her visiting list, now, 
 alas ! replaced only by those country squires and 
 their wives. 
 
 To return to that society seemed her most 
 ardent wish. I never could quite reconcile the 
 affection she professed for my aunt Diana with 
 the plans she used to form of what she would do 
 when she and Theodosia were no more. There 
 was a difference of thirty-five years between 
 their ages, and it was natural she should expect 
 to outlive them ; but it always struck me as 
 strange that she should talk of doing so — of re- 
 turning among her great friends after their death, 
 as her pleasantest anticipation. 
 
 " Joan will be here on Thursday," said my
 
 94 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 aunt Theodosia, looking up from her netting; 
 ** I suppose, Lizzie, we ought to feel glad, but I 
 can't say I am. We got on very well together, 
 your aunt Diana, you, and I ; and now I imagine 
 all the scolding will recommence. 
 
 She returned as bitter as ever ; and again my 
 life became stale, flat, profitless, and dreary — only, 
 in general, my aunt Diana held her peace, and 
 found no fault with me — and if she did, it no 
 longer sank into my heart as heretofore : in 
 learning to love, I had ceased to dread her. 
 
 On one subject the scoldings ceased. Now 
 that my clothes were made like other people's, I 
 heard no more of my awkwardness — my aunt 
 Joan never called me Miss MacGawk, or Made- 
 moiselle de la Gaucherie, any more. 
 
 The fact is, that while the flowing robes of 
 ancient nations or the modern Asiatics would 
 never make their wearers look ungraceful, our 
 dresses, which have no innate elegance to recom- 
 mend them, become perfectly absurd and vulgar 
 as soon as they cease to be fashionable. The 
 attire of Josephine and Marie Louise, with short 
 waists and narrow skirts, would have made the 
 most elegant woman in the county look awkward, 
 if she had been compelled to wear it when all 
 other women wore large hats or bonnets, long 
 waists, and very wide full dresses, with flounces 
 half a yard deep. 
 
 Not long since, I, and my husband, with whom
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 95 
 
 the reader has not yet the honour of being ac- 
 quainted, came up to London in this present 
 year, 1858. 
 
 As we walked arm-in-arm up Chancery Lane, 
 we met two ladies — sisters, no doubt — in that 
 very dress which I thought in my youth so ele- 
 gant, when I saw it worn by Anne and Melusina 
 Beauchamp. It was then the fashion. 
 
 They had white gowns, with broad worked 
 flounces hanging, as they hung in those days, in 
 ample folds to the figure, innocent of hoops and 
 crinoline ; and over them fell deep collars, in 
 shape not unlike the neck and shoulders of a 
 wax doll before it is sewn on to the body : 
 round this gorget was a broad frill of work 
 reaching nearly to their waists, which were en- 
 circled by belts and buckles ; green silk hand- 
 kerchiefs, loosely tied round the throat, and 
 huge coal-scuttle bonnets, with immense high 
 bows, stiffened by wire, completed their costume. 
 There was nothing gaudy in it, nothing conspi- 
 cuous in itself. They wore only two colours, 
 white and green ; but it was a by-gone mode, 
 the make of every article was different to the 
 present fashion. Nobody, save themselves, wore 
 coal-scuttle bonnets with towering bows, or 
 flounced white gowns, square gorget, frilled 
 collars, and silk neck-handkerchiefs. Everybody 
 else wore mantles or shawls over coloured dresses, 
 and little bonnets a L'Imperairice ; and so
 
 96 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 every man, woman, and child turned round to 
 stare at them with as much curiosity as if they 
 had been Chinese or Laplanders. They took no 
 notice — probably they were women to whom some 
 great grief had come early in life, and whose 
 minds had ever since stood still, and not gone 
 on with the world. They retained the dress 
 they had worn when they were young, beloved, 
 and happy ; and did not even see it was different 
 from that in vogue now. But surely to dress a 
 young girl, with warm, quick feelings, in a 
 way that makes her appear as absurd as these 
 two poor old ladies, was cruel — to scold her be- 
 cause she looked awkward in it, tyrannical and 
 unreasonable. 
 
 I gained little by the cessation of remarks on 
 my ungraceful movements. When did the power- 
 ful want pretexts for oppressing the weak ? 
 
 First, there were the interminable inquiries, 
 whether I did not deem it my duty to sacrifice 
 myself to her who had brought me up, and given 
 me such a happy home for fourteen years ; and 
 when I expressed my unwillingness to be immo- 
 lated, there were groans, sighs, and lamentations 
 on my unheard-of depravity. 
 
 Then, when my aunt Joan read aloud to us, 
 as she often did, she was wont, on laying down 
 the book, to ask my opinion of the characters in 
 it. When I hesitated to give it, for fear of con- 
 sequences, she forced it from me by a series of
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 97 
 
 cross-questions, that would have done honour to 
 a leading counsel, and then exhausted all her 
 powers of wit and sarcasm to prove I was wrong. 
 She would not permit me to decline answering, 
 or to remain silent. If I made no reply, and 
 tried to avoid an argument, she harangued upon 
 my stubborn obstinacy ; nothing would satisfy 
 her but an acknowledgment that she was always 
 right, and I always wrong in my opinions, and 
 that acknowledgment I could not conscientiously 
 give. If I had been worse than I was, if I had 
 been a hypocrite, a mean, artful deceiver, who 
 cared not what 1 said, I might have won her 
 favour ; but she left me no loop-hole for escape. 
 She did not permit me to take refuge either in 
 silence or doubt; she insisted on hearing my 
 thoughts, and then quarrelled with me for 
 thinking them. 
 
 How could we agree ? She was a woman of 
 the worhi — shrewd, sophistical, artificial ; 1 
 young and full of romance, worshipping talent 
 and virtue, believing that everybody was good, 
 considering rank, fashion, and money as so 
 much dross compared with true love. 
 
 We might have argued to eternity, and 
 never come any nearer to each other's views. 
 
 There was another subject on which she 
 delighted to dwell, because she knew it gave me 
 intense pain. It was my mother. I had seen 
 little of my mother — my aunt had herself removed 
 
 VOL. I. u
 
 98 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 me from her at a very early age — and I had 
 been so long separated from her, that she 
 scarcely seemed to consider me as her child, but 
 rather as my aunt Joan's. Still, I could not 
 bear to hear her ridiculed and held up to scorn. 
 It wounded me to the very quick to be taunted 
 with her ignorance, her vulgarity, and her low 
 birth — all which existed only in my aunt Joan's 
 own mind. She was not a learned woman — the 
 cares of a large family, and a small income, left 
 her little time for reading ; but she had strong 
 natural good sense, a great deal of artistic taste 
 (far more than my nunt Joan had) in regard to 
 harmony of colours, and the arrangement of 
 dress, or of a room, a vivid fancy, and a pure 
 and just poetic feeling. I never knew her com- 
 mit to memory or copy a piece of trashy verse ; 
 but she had intense enjoyment in really beautiful 
 poetry. Early left motherless, she had been, 
 brought up at a fashionable school, where she was 
 neglected, and had married young ; but she was 
 refined enough for her station in life. She was a 
 good wife, a good mother, a good mistress, a good 
 neighbour ; charitable to the poor, and a smcere 
 Christian. She was hasty, as I knew to my 
 cost when with her, by many a slap and sharp 
 speech ; but she was not bitter and false like my 
 aunt Joan. Finally, her birth was certainly 
 fearfully low. How could a Beauchamp Neville
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 99 
 
 ever think of her ? She was only — a physician's 
 daughter ! 
 
 Day by day these contests — unwilling contests 
 on my part — went on, till my very soul was sick 
 of argument and dispute, though my conscience 
 forbade me to lie. Whether I replied to my 
 aunt's reiterated questions, or whether I remained 
 silent, signified not, the hail of sharp words fell, 
 the fierce biting blasts of sarcasm chilled bone 
 and marrow, and scorching irony, like forked 
 lightning, seared and blasted every gentle feel- 
 ing the kindness of my aunt Diana had aroused 
 within me. 
 
 Again I craved freedom and peace, beat 
 my wings wildly against the bars of my cage, 
 and, like a new-caught bird, should have da&hed 
 myself to death against the wires, had not my 
 captors opened the windows, set the cage door 
 wide — and let me go free. 
 
 *' I am quite sick of all this disputing," said 
 aunt Theodosia querulously one morning. " We 
 had none of it when Joan was away. Elizabeth, 
 I half-wish you were gone." 
 
 " So do I, I'm sure, aunt The." 
 
 " It's ungrateful, too, of you, as Joan says," 
 said aunt Theodosia fretfully. 
 
 I laid my hand upon her arm — she drew it 
 away — so I bent down over her as she sat in her 
 old seat by the window, netting, put my left 
 
 h2
 
 100 A FAMILY HISTORY, 
 
 arm round her neck, and said, "Aunt Theodosia, 
 have I ever been ungrateful to youV 
 
 " Not to me exactly — but Joan — " 
 
 " She is always cross and unjust to me, and 
 you know it ; you have often said so yourself. I 
 shall be glad, very glad to leave her — sorry to 
 leave you and aunt Diana. I shall often think, 
 when I am away, of the walks we took together, 
 and wish for you. You never taunted me, or 
 reproached me or my mother. I always loved 
 you. No, aunt Theodosia, 1 am not ungrateful." 
 
 " Go away, you're an ungrateful, graceless 
 chit," said aunt Theodosia, but her bright affec- 
 tionate smile, and the playful tap she gave me 
 with her netting-needle, belied her words. 
 
 A few days afterwards a friend of my aunt 
 Joan's wrote to say a Mrs. Stanley, residing in 
 the county of Somerset, wanted a governess for 
 her children. Inquiries were made on both 
 sides, references exchanged, and I was engaged. 
 
 The Beauchamps called the morning I received 
 Mrs. Stanley's letter fixing the day of my 
 departure. I saw them from the window, and 
 rushed out to meet them. 
 
 "Oh! Melusina," I exclaimed joyously, "I'm 
 going ! — aren't you glad ?"■ 
 
 A cloud came over her frank, beautiful eyes. 
 
 " And do you say this to me, and ask me to 
 be glad that I'm going to lose my friend ? " 
 asked she, reproachfully.
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 101 
 
 My heart smote me. Surely I must be very 
 ungrateful. I loved Melusina, and my aunts 
 Diana and Theodosia, and yet the joy of getting 
 away — for ever, as I hoped — from my aunt 
 Joan, was so great, and filled my heart so 
 utterly, as to leave no room for any regrets. 
 
 " I'm not glad to leave you, Melusina," I began 
 — " only glad to leave Hilton, and — " I stopped. 
 What could I say ? I had never complained to 
 any one of my aunts — I did not like to begin 
 now. 
 
 Perhaps Melusina guessed what I would not 
 say. She put her arm lovingly within mine, and 
 walked with me into the drawing-room. 
 
 ^^ All young people like a change," said she, 
 softly. 
 
 Lady Beauchamp had entered, and been told 
 of my intended departure, while Melusina and I 
 were talking on the grass-plot. 
 
 " And how does Elizabeth like the thoughts 
 of it ? " said she. 
 
 My aunt Joan spared me the trouble of an- 
 swering. 
 
 " She is like all young people, glad of a 
 change ; but I daresay she will be as glad to 
 come back." 
 
 Lady Beauchamp made no reply. 
 
 I suppose the most studied vengeance I could 
 have taken would not have wounded my aunt 
 Joan so deeply as the sight of my uncontrollable
 
 102 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 joy. I tried to restrain myself, to move about 
 the parlour gravely and soberly, but the mo- 
 ment I got outside the door, the irrepressible 
 joy gushed out. I flew rather than ran upstairs — 
 I seemed to have wings to my feet, to tread on 
 air ! When my boxes were packed and corded, 
 I danced upon them. Hannah, who had been 
 holding the candle for me, thought I was mad. 
 
 I was to start at five next day. It was a 
 raw, cold, drizzly morning, when I came down- 
 stairs. I went into the drawing-room, where 
 Hannah had spread the breakfast-table, and lit 
 me a glorious fire. I had taken leave of all my 
 aunts the night before, and having no one to 
 talk to, I drew my chair close to the fender, and 
 sat down to have a good warm, ■ while John and 
 Hannah got breakfast ready. The door opened 
 behind me, and my dear little aunt Theodosia 
 came in. She had got up that cold, cheerless 
 morning, at that early hour, to make me a com- 
 fortable breakfast before I set oflP, and to see me 
 once more. 
 
 Then the ice that had been gathering round 
 my heart thawed. My tears fell thick and fast. 
 Aunt Theodosia wept with me.
 
 103 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 I TRAVELLED all that day and the next. My 
 journey was performed by coach. Mrs. Stanley 
 had written to the landlady of the inn where I 
 was to sleep the first night, and requested her 
 to take care of me, as I was a young lady, and 
 wholly unused to travelling. I thought this 
 so very kind, that it prepared me to like her; 
 afterwards I ascertained she wrote by her hus- 
 band's command. 
 
 The landlady, Mrs. Marsh, was a mother. She 
 shewed me to a retired bed-room, and told me 
 she and her family slept in that part of the 
 house, and no strangers ever came near it. I 
 asked for a fire and tea. The fire was lit, and 
 I sat down to warm myself, and beguile the time 
 as I might. I was too new to travelling to have 
 thought of taking a book with me. 
 
 Of what consequence I felt myself as I or- 
 dered the chambermaid who lit the fire to bring 
 me cold chicken, ham, and mufiins ; for I had 
 travelled all day, and had a girl's appetite, 
 sharpened by the keen bracing air from the hills.
 
 104 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 When she was gone, I took out my purse 
 and counted over my fortune. Twenty whole 
 sovereigns ! — and I had hardly ever had twenty 
 shillings at one time before. The wealth of 
 Croesus was nothing to mine. It was an El- 
 Dorado — inexhaustible, like Fortunatus's purse. 
 Still, I felt rather lonely ; a little like Crusoe in 
 his solitary dominions. I longed for my aunt 
 Theodosia, or Melusina, or Constance De Yere. 
 I stirred the fire, with an awful sense of my 
 greatness ; for it would have been as much as 
 my life was worth to touch poker or tongs at 
 Hilton. Then I walked about the room, looked 
 out of the window upon the leads — not even 
 a sparrow hopping about in front of it — 
 resumed my promenade, and wished the chamber- 
 maid would bring tea ; I was tired of having 
 nothing to do. 
 
 The door opened ; I turned round joyfully — 
 not my tea, but a comely young lady. 
 
 ^^ Mamma sent me,'' she said, " to ask if you 
 would favour us with your company to tea ; you 
 will see no one but her and my sister. She 
 thinks it will be more cheerful for you than 
 sitting here alone." 
 
 I was only too happy to accept, and gaily 
 followed her downstairs, and instead of a dreary, 
 solitary evening, I passed a very pleasant one. 
 
 Mrs. Marsh told me that if I set off at four 
 next day I should reach Weston by seven or
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 105 
 
 eiglit o'clock, and if I went earlier I should have 
 to wait several hours at an insignificant little 
 town, where there was nothing to see, for the 
 afternoon coach. If I chose to remain w^here I 
 was, her daughter would shew me the cathedral 
 next morning. I assented gladly ; I had a 
 passion for cathedrals, and no fancy at all for 
 sitting four or five hours alone in an inn parlour 
 with nothing to do. At eleven o'clock we had 
 an excellent supper, and then I went to bed, very 
 tired and very happy, and slept the healthy, 
 dreamless sleep of the young. 
 
 I breakfasted with my kind hostess and her 
 daughters, and after breakfast we sallied forth. 
 I was disappointed at first sight. What was 
 their cathedral to ours near Hilton ? But when 
 I descended into its gloomy crypts, and traversed 
 its spacious cloisters, I was reluctantly com- 
 pelled to admit that though neither so lufty, so 
 airy in its internal architecture, nor so highly de- 
 corated, in some things it excelled ours. 
 
 Then we went through the picturesque old 
 town. I had some purchases to make. The 
 first was a book, to while away the time in 
 travelling, and I bought Kirke White's poems. 
 I can never help laughing when I think of my 
 second, it was so thoroughly girlish. My hair 
 was so abundant I could hardly grasp it in 
 one hand, and therefore I bought a wig {Crepee 
 curls were worn then) and my aunt Joan had
 
 106 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 brought down from London a silk front, fastened 
 on wires, which looked exactly like hair, and 
 could not come undone. Katherine Howard 
 and the Beauchamps had them to wear when 
 they rode on horseback, while their own redun- 
 dant tresses were carefully pinned up under their 
 hats, so that they might come out in full curls 
 and proper trim at dinner time ; but I had no 
 late dinners to dress for, and was going to keep 
 school, not to ride on horseback. 
 
 My third bargain was some net-edging, and 
 ribbon for two morning caps. I bought these 
 on the same principle as the false front, to prove 
 I was really bona fide — what my brothers used 
 to tell me I was not — '^ a right-down grown-up 
 woman.'' 
 
 A little before four o'clock I asked Mrs. 
 Marsh for my bill ; she made some excuse — it 
 should be made out presently. I asked a second 
 time, and she positively refused to accept one 
 farthing. I wished to pay her, but I felt that 
 to urge the matter further would be to return 
 her kindness by insult ; so I thanked her very 
 heartily and gratefully for her kindness, shook 
 hands with her and her daughters, and got into 
 the coach which was waiting at the door, and on 
 the top of which my boxes were already placed. 
 
 There was nothing peculiarly interesting on 
 my route. I was solitary tenant of the inside of 
 the coach, and I wrapped myself closely up in
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 107 
 
 my shawls, and alternately glanced at the snowy 
 landscape through the coach windows, and read 
 Kirke White. 
 
 It was nearly nine when I reached Wes- 
 ton at last. I told the coachman I was 
 going to the Rectory, and he replied it was only 
 a few steps for his horses, and he would take me 
 there. So I sat quietly in my corner till the other 
 passengers had got their luggage and settled 
 with coachy, and then he drove me to the door 
 of my new home. He jumped down, rang the 
 bell, lifted down my luggage, and, holding out 
 his hand, asked me to " remember the guard and 
 the coachman.'^ 
 
 I did so, and he touched his hat with his 
 whip, and told me emphatically, " I was a lady, 
 and no mistake, and he knew it as soon as ever 
 he clapped his eyes on me." 
 
 '"' A real lady, and a bonny one too," responded 
 the guard as the coach drove off. 
 
 I was smiling to myself at this compliment, 
 when a hearty voice behind me said, 
 
 '"' Miss Neville, I suppose ?" I turned quickly, 
 and saw a tall fine-looking man ; he went on, 
 " You have had a cold journey. John, take 
 those trunks to Miss Neville's room. Come in. 
 Miss Neville, and let me shut the hall-door, for 
 it is piercingly cold here." 
 
 I followed him across the hall ; he threw open 
 a door, and the gleam of a well-lit room and
 
 108 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 blazing fire sent a glow of pleasure to raj 
 benumbed, half-frozen limbs. 
 
 " This is Mrs. Stanley, Miss Neville," he said, 
 apostrophising a lady who sat on one side of the 
 fire, cosily ensconced in an arm chair. 
 
 I looked eagerly. I was anxious to see the sort 
 of woman on whom my happiness was to depend. 
 
 She was tall, pale, and thin. A very small 
 quantity of dark hair fell in thin damp ringlets 
 around a hatchet-shaped face. She had no 
 eyebrows ; her eyes were light blue and fishy. 
 No life or meaning was in them. She had a 
 sharp-pointed and rather large Koman nose, and 
 thin short lips, slightly curving downwards at 
 the corners. Neither her countenance, nor a 
 listless affected manner and a drawling pronun- 
 ciation, put on to hide a coarse tone of voice 
 and a vulgar idiom, impressed me favourably. 
 I saw her at once to be one of those women who 
 are always in a muddle. I judged her to be 
 weak — I more than half-suspected her to be 
 pettish. Had she been poor, she would have 
 been a querulous, dirty slattern ; as it was, she 
 was only — Mrs. Muddle. 
 
 Why had Mr. Stanley married such a woman ? 
 Her face and figure showed — for mere beauty. 
 She had, doubtless, been very pretty ; but now 
 youth was gone, there wanted the play of features, 
 the soul, the expression, that can make even the 
 old lovely.
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 109 
 
 She half-rose, languidly presented two fingers 
 to me, and drawled out, 
 
 " 'Ow do you do, Miss Neville;'' then re-seating 
 herself in her chair, she closed her eyes for a 
 moment, as if over-fatigued by such great exer- 
 tion, and seemed to think her part as hostess 
 fulfilled. 
 
 " Come to the fire. Miss Neville," said Mr. 
 Stanley's decisive voice, as his wife dropped her 
 two fingers from my hand ; and he placed me a 
 chair beside his own. 
 
 I turned to look at him. One feels so curious 
 to see what kind of faces people with w^hom one 
 is about to reside have, to form some guess, as it 
 were, whether we shall find them persons to like. 
 His was a re-assuring one, as he stood there 
 confronting me with his hands resting on the 
 back of the chair, and the fire-light flashing full 
 upon his open, frank countenance. 
 
 He was a tall, broad-built, muscular-looking 
 man. Strength marked every movement of that 
 powerful frame. Strength of will and purpose 
 sat in every line of the broad, massy forehead, 
 and close-set, welbformed lips. Over his wide 
 brow waved a heavy mass of blue-black hair. 
 His eye-brows were thick, broad, and slightly 
 arched; his eyes, well cut, clear, and open, were 
 deep blue, good-humour and joviality shone in 
 them. I judged him to be one who took life 
 easily and cheerfully, and rode as it were with
 
 110 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 slackened reins, conscious that his grasp was 
 firm, his seat secure in the saddle. In other 
 words, that he let things take their own course, 
 and that necessity alone roused him to exertion ; 
 but that once aroused, once having made up his 
 mind to any course of action, Mr. Stanley was 
 a man whom it would be hopeless to attempt to 
 turn. A pleasant smile played about his lips 
 when he spoke, a pleasant light glanced in the 
 dark blue eyes ; the tones of his voice were at 
 once suave and cordial, there was something 
 frank in them which told you the speaker was 
 worthy of trust. 
 
 I liked him. 
 
 ^' This is my eldest daughter Georgiana," said 
 he, patting the cheek of a tall girl who sat at 
 the end of the table, *^ and one of your future 
 pupils ; there are the others.'' 
 
 My glance followed his. Round the table, 
 and by the fire, were grouped a set of children, 
 of all ages and sizes apparently, from twelve 
 years old downwards, all with their eyes wide 
 open, staring at the newly-arrived governess : 
 their name appeared to be legion. 1 was beginning 
 to count them, when Mr. Stanley, guessing my 
 thoughts, said, laughingly, 
 
 ^* They're not all here. Miss Neville, two are 
 in the nursery, and four boys are at school ; but 
 these you see are your pupils — they stayed up to 
 see you.''
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. Ill 
 
 " P'raps if your warmed, you would like to 
 go up to your bed-room and take off your 
 things before tea," said Mrs. Stanley, languidly. 
 '* Georgie, go and see if there's a good fire 
 in Miss Neville's room." 
 
 ^^ It's no use going to see — I knoio there is," 
 replied Georgiana. 
 
 ** Nevertheless, go and look, as your mother 
 desires," said her father, and unwillingly she 
 obeyed. 
 
 I looked at her as she pushed away her chair 
 with an impatient movement, and crossed the 
 room with a slouching, half-careless, half-defiant 
 walk. Her features were good, but their ex- 
 pression was unpleasing. Over a lowering brow, 
 with the same broad, arched, coal-black eyebrows 
 as her father's, fell a cloud of the same blue-black 
 hair, so carelessly arranged as to become a defect 
 rather than an ornament. Discontent sat throned 
 on the frowning forehead, in the heavy-lidded 
 deep blue eyes, and on the sullen lips. The 
 figure was unformed and ungraceful. Without 
 seeing her face, only by her walk and attitudes, 
 any observer might have known her to be out 
 of temper. I did not like the looks of my new 
 pupil at all. Presently she returned. 
 
 " It's just as I knew it was — the fire is a 
 good one." 
 
 " Then light Miss Neville upstairs, and shew 
 her the way," said Mr. Stanley.
 
 112 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 She went, and I followed. 
 
 " This is your room." 
 
 Not a word more did she speak. She did not 
 vouchsafe to offer to help me to pull off my 
 wrappings, or ask if I would have hot water to 
 wash my hands — or shew me the most trifling 
 mark of attention. She put the candle down on 
 the dressing-table, honoured me with a long, 
 supercilious stare, and went downstairs again. 
 
 When I re-entered the sitting-room, I found 
 her presiding over the tea-table. She handed 
 me my cup in solemn silence, not shily, as if 
 afraid to address me, but disdainfully, as if she 
 did not think me worth speaking to. As to the 
 little ones, they devoured large slices of bread 
 and butter, and stared at me till I thought their 
 eyelids would certainly split, they opened them 
 so very wide. 
 
 " What ba-ad tea this is, G-eorgie ! ^' drawled 
 Mrs. Stanley; ^^ why didn't you put more in 
 the tea-pot ? " 
 
 ^' I emptied the canister; 'tisn't my fault," 
 said Georgie. 
 
 '' And why didn't you take care to refill the 
 canister when you knew it wanted doing, 
 Georgie ? " asked Mr. Stanley, in a good-tem- 
 pered tone. 
 
 " And there's no marmalade ! " said Lucy, the 
 second girl. 
 
 " What a girl you are, Georgie ! " said Mrs.
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 113 
 
 Stanley ; '* you never think of anything. Go 
 fill the canister, and fetch some more marma- 
 lade." 
 
 Georgiana went, with an air which implied 
 that to be found fault with was a thing of 
 course, and excited no emotion ; it was the 
 labour of going that she disliked. 
 
 '' Georgiana is so very careless ! I'm afraid 
 she'll give you a deal of trouble. We can't 
 tell what to do with 'er. She don't seem to 
 take to anything : neither looking after the 
 'oiise, nor books, nor work, nor nothink. As 
 to Lucy 'ere — Titty we call 'er — she is an 
 opening bud, ready to receive any impression," 
 said Mrs. Stanley, in what she conceived to be 
 a fashionable drawl, and closing and unclosing 
 her eyes several times while she spoke, in order 
 to give expression to her face. 
 
 " I doubt," said Mr. Stanley, with a good- 
 tempered smile, '' Miss Neville won't make 
 much of that, my dear. If you had told her 
 that Lucy was quick or dull it would have been 
 more to the purpose." 
 
 '' Dull ! Mr. Stanley," said the lady, opening 
 wide her inexpressive, fish -like eyes, and then 
 languidly closing them for an instant ; '' dull ! 
 Mr. Stanley ! Tha-ank God, no child of mine was 
 ever dull !" 
 
 Georgiana returned with the tea and the mar- 
 malade, and her mother, looking at her, went on : 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 114 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 ^* I ^ope you'll get on with Georgie, Miss 
 Neville, though she's not fond of books and 
 work, like my little Titty 'ere. Georgie's not 
 so quick at learning as Lucy; but then we 
 ain't all alike," said Mrs. Stanley, with a be- 
 nevolent smile at her eldest daughter. 
 
 I looked at Georgiana. Not a muscle of her 
 face moved. She was used to these comments. 
 
 *^My third girl, Beatrice, 'as a great talent 
 for music. Miss Neville. I think Beaty will 
 play well. We always call 'er Beaty. I like 
 pet names ; they sound affectionate and youth- 
 ful. Young people always give them to one 
 another ; and I'm young, though I ^ave so 
 many children. People tell me I look like 
 Georgie's sister,'' said Mrs. Stanley, slowly clos- 
 ing her eyes and smiling languidly. 
 
 I could not echo the compliment. I was 
 silent. 
 
 " Come, children," said the father, '' it's nearly 
 ten o'clock. High time you were all abed and 
 asleep. You've done tea. Wish good night, 
 and go." 
 
 *^ Georgie, you put Titty and Beaty to bed ; 
 they don't like being undressed by Ann," said 
 Mrs. Stanley. 
 
 *^Yes, and then put yourself to bed too, 
 Georgie," added the father ; " so you, too, had 
 better wish good night." And accordingly the 
 five sisters departed together.
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 115 
 
 y»'e sat by the blazing fire a little longer, and 
 Mr. Stanley questioned me as to my journey, 
 and asked what I thought of the cathedral, and 
 the quaint old town where I had slept the pre- 
 ceding night. I saw that, in a quiet, gentle- 
 manly, unobtrusive manner, he was endeavouring 
 to draw me out, and to form some judgment as 
 to the capabilities of his children's future go- 
 verness. What he himself said on each subject 
 proved him to be a well-informed man. It was 
 pleasant and improving to listen to him. 
 
 All this time Mrs. Stanley sat fidgeting ; 
 anything like intellectual conversation bored her 
 to death. At last she said, " My dear, it's 'alf- 
 past ten o'clock, and Miss Neville must be 
 sleepy. Do ring for prayers." 
 
 The Rector touched the bell, the servants 
 entered. He read prayers in a clear, grave 
 voice ; but, it struck me, rather as a matter of 
 form than of actual religion. When we all rose 
 from our knees, we wished one another good 
 night. Mr. Stanley, in doing so, shook hands 
 with me cordially. His wife said she would 
 show me my room, for tear I should lose my 
 way ; and we went upstairs together, leaving 
 Mr. Stanley below. She entered my chamber 
 with me, poked up my fire, '''oped I should rest 
 well," and left me. 
 
 Thus ended my second day in the world — that 
 world on which, as my aunt Joan said, " I had 
 
 1 2
 
 116 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 chosen to fling myself," and in which I was 
 henceforward to fight my own way. 
 
 I went to bed tired, but not depressed. My 
 aunt Joan had drawn such dreadful pictures of 
 the hauteur and coldness with which governesses 
 were treated, that my reception by the Stanleys 
 appeared warm in comparison with them. I 
 looked round my comfortable bedroom, stirred 
 my glowing fire, and thought that in life there 
 must be always disagreeables mixed up with the 
 sweets. I foresaw trouble with Mrs. Stanley 
 and her eldest daughter. In Mr. Stanley I 
 hoped to find a friend and adviser. Taking all 
 in all, I would rather be here, honestly earning 
 my own bread, than a dependent upon my aunt 
 Joan at Hilton. 
 
 Next morning I arose early. I took from my 
 trunk a clean white collar, and one of my pretty 
 gingham dresses. I braided my long curls back 
 from my forehead as neatly as I could, fiistened 
 my gown myself, tied on a little black silk apron, 
 and descended to the room where we had drunk 
 tea the night before, and which I now found to 
 be the study. Mr. Stanley and the whole bevy 
 of children were already therCo On my entrance 
 he rang for prayers, and while the servants were 
 assembling he inquired how I had slept after my 
 journey, and told me Mrs. Stanley was unwell — 
 indeed, I should not often see her at breakfast. 
 Georgie always made tea.
 
 A FAMILY HISTOHY. 117 
 
 After prayers were over, the man-servant 
 brought in a small tray covered with a napkin. 
 Mr. Stanley cut several good-sized slices of ham 
 from one on the table, and put them on a plate 
 upon the tray, and Georgiana added a couple of 
 pats of fresh butter, a roll, some dry toast, 
 muffin, and a cup of tea ; and having also poured 
 out a cup for every person at table except her- 
 self, she took the tray up to her mother. 
 
 Presently she returned with the plate of ham 
 in her hand. 
 
 ^* Mamma won't have ham to-day ; she would 
 like an egg.'* 
 
 ^^ Very well ; then boil one, Georgie," said 
 Mr. Stanley, transferring the rejected ham to 
 his own plate. '^ Three minutes and a half, 
 mind — Mamma does not like it done either more 
 or less ; there is my watch." 
 
 Georgiana stood by the fire and boiled the egg. 
 When it was done she took it upstairs, returned, 
 and resumed her place at the breakfast table. 
 
 "Miss Neville will take some more tea, and 
 so will I, Georgie," said her father. Georgie 
 silently filled and handed us our respective cups ; 
 and then Lucy, and Beatrice, and Emma, and 
 Julia, each applied for more, and had their wants 
 attended to ; and then Mrs. Stanley's bell rang 
 twice. 
 
 " That's for you, Georgie — there's mamma's 
 bell," said Lucy, pertly.
 
 118 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 The doer of all errands rose and went. All 
 this time she had not tasted her breakfast, and I 
 wondered why Lucy could not have answered it, 
 but of course I said nothing. 
 
 Georgiana came back with the egg, as she had 
 before with the ham. 
 
 " Mamma says it's not boiled enough for her 
 fancy, and you're to have it, Beaty. She will 
 have some marmalade. I'm sure I boiled it ex- 
 actly three minutes and a half." 
 
 ^^ Never mind, Georgie ; I know you did, for I 
 looked at my watch when you put it in and 
 when you took it out of the saucepan. But 
 never mind ; take mamma some marmalade," 
 said Mr. Stanley. 
 
 Georgiana put some on a plate, and carried it 
 upstairs. 
 
 " It's a shame, so It is, that you should have 
 an egg and we haven't," said Lucy and the two 
 younger ones to Beaty. ^^ Papa, I say, papa, 
 mayn't Georgie give us each an egg out of the 
 store-room when she comes downstairs ? " 
 
 " If you wish it very much," said the indul- 
 gent father. 
 
 ** Oh, we do — we like eggs so mu(Jh. Don't 
 you. Miss Neville ? " 
 
 ^* Miss Neville can have an egg, or two eggs 
 even, if she likes," said Mr. Stanley. ** Here, 
 Georgie," to his re-entering eldest daughter, "go 
 fetch six or eight eggs out of the store-room.
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 119 
 
 Miss Neville and the children want some." 
 
 Again Georgie trotted off. When she brought 
 the eggs, I insisted on boiling them, alleging she 
 had not had any breakfast herself yet. 
 
 '* Oh, Georgie always waits on ma and makes 
 our tea ; she always has her breakfast last," said 
 Lucy. 
 
 '^ And could not you help her to carry your 
 mamma's breakfast, Lucy ? " 
 
 '^ Me ! " 
 
 " Oh, Lucy's such a child, she'd break and 
 upset everything," observed Mr. Stanley. 
 
 Georgie had just raised her teacup to her 
 mouth when Mrs. Stanley's bell rang twice. 
 
 ''That's for ma's second cup," said Beatie ; 
 and Georgie, as before, rose to answer the sum- 
 mons. 
 
 " Surely Lucy could have fetched the empty 
 cup and saucer, and saved Miss Stanley a little 
 running up and downstairs?" said I. 
 
 '* Oh, she'd break it; she's only eleven. Be- 
 sides, Georgie don't mind ; she's used to running 
 about. Mrs. Stanley is not strong, and Georgie 
 has waited upon her ever since she was ten years 
 old," replied the father. 
 
 After Georgie had taken up the second cup of 
 tea to her mother she was allowed to get her 
 own breakfast in peace, with only one other in- 
 terruption — going to fetch the tray downstairs 
 when Mrs. Stanley rang again.
 
 120 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 When the meal was over, Mr. Stanley pro- 
 posed to induct me into the school-room, while 
 Georgie went to receive mamma's orders about 
 the dinner, and transmit them to the cook. 
 
 It was a pleasant, cheerful room, with two 
 sashed windows looking on the lawn. Now, the 
 flower-beds were roughly dug up, heaps of long 
 litter covered the delicate plants, and sticks of 
 various sizes marked the spots where deciduous 
 ones stood. Nothing looked fresh or green, 
 but the smooth even turf, and the glossy ever- 
 greens that fenced it in. Beyond, in the distance, 
 sloped a valley, bounded by a range of irregular 
 hills on one side ; and among the trees I could 
 discern the spire, and, when the sun shone 
 brightly, the roofs and windows, of the little 
 town of Burton, through which I had travelled 
 the day before. It must be a beautiful place, I 
 thought, in summer, when the setting sun gleams 
 on those dark hills, glances on spire and case- 
 ment till they sparkle like huge rubies, and floods 
 the sky with molten gold ; and when those beds 
 are all full of sweet-scented, brilliant flowers, 
 glittering in the light. 
 
 But I had not time to admire it long, for Mr. 
 Stanley, placing a chair for me, took one him- 
 self also. 
 
 '* I want to talk to you about the children, 
 Miss Neville,'' said he. " Georgie, especially, is
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 121 
 
 very backward — far behind most girls of her 
 age. Mrs. Stanley is much distressed about it." 
 
 *^ I am not surprised at her backwardness," 
 replied I, quietly. 
 
 " Not surprised ! Why ? Does she strike 
 you as dull ? " 
 
 '^ Not at all, sir ; but Miss Stanley appears to 
 me to have no time for improvement, if I may 
 judge by last night and this morning." 
 
 " No time ? I don't understand you." 
 
 ^' I mean, Mr. Stanley, that if Miss Stanley is 
 always running up and downstairs, she can have 
 no time to study her lessons." 
 
 *^ That's true," said Mr. Stanley, with a puz- 
 zled look ; " but then, I don't know how it is to 
 be avoided. Mrs. Stanley is a great invalid, and 
 who so proper to wait upon her as her eldest 
 daughter ? " 
 
 ^^ But, sir, might not the others take their 
 turn ? You say Miss Stanley has waited on her 
 mother ever since she was ten years old, and 
 Lucy tells me she is nearly twelve. She is old 
 enough to help her sister, and so is Beatrice. 
 Pardon me, sir, but I think it would be a good 
 thing for them to learn to be useful as well as 
 Miss Stanley." 
 
 Mr. Stanley thought. "I believe you are 
 right. Miss Neville," he answered, after a few 
 moments' silent consideration of what I had said. 
 *^ It never struck me before. But, I suppose,
 
 122 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 when once Georgie sits down to her lessons she 
 is not interrupted. If she is, it must be put a 
 stop to, somehow or other ; or else, as you truly 
 say, she cannot have time to learn. Go on with 
 your instructions for a week, and then make 
 your report to me on the subject ;" and with 
 these words he rose from his chair and quitted 
 the room. 
 
 I desired the children to collect all their 
 books, and bring them to me, that I might see 
 what they had been accustomed to learn with 
 their last governess. 
 
 Lucy and the two little ones obeyed. Beatrice 
 opened the piano. 
 
 *^ I always play first," said she. ^^ Miss Scott, 
 our music mistress, says I shall play a great 
 deal better than Georgie." 
 
 **But just now you will do what I desire 
 you," said I, going to the piano, and shutting it 
 down. 
 
 '^ I always practise first," repeated Beatrice, 
 beginning to cry ; ^' ma likes me to." 
 
 *' I will speak to your mamma on the sub- 
 ject," said I, firmly and authoritatively ; " but 
 now I must examine both you and Lucy, to 
 know what you have learnt. I suppose you do 
 not wish me to think you can do nothing but 
 play a few little tunes on the piano ? " 
 
 This roused the child's pride. She went and 
 fetched her books, intent on showing me she
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 123 
 
 could do as well as Lucy. I found both had 
 been badly taught, and were very backward for 
 their ages. I marked out their several tasks, 
 and told them to sit down and studv them. 
 Then I looked up to the clock on the mantel- 
 piece. It was eleven, and Georgiana had not 
 made her appearance. Half-an-hour afterwards 
 she entered the school-room, with a slow, unwil- 
 ling step, and a cloudy brow. 
 
 I requested her to bring her books. 
 
 *^ Where is your French exercise book ? " I 
 asked. 
 
 " I never wrote any exercises ; ma and Miss 
 Benson, our last governess, agreed they were no 
 use." 
 
 " What did you do, then ? " 
 
 " I read aloud to Miss Benson, and learnt 
 verbs and grammar, and geography lessons.'* 
 
 " Well, let me hear you read this tale in ^ Les 
 Yeillee's du Chateau.' " 
 
 She commenced — true English French, in 
 which every ^' n " is sounded as if it had a " g " 
 after it. 
 
 '^ Georgie," said I, *^ that will never do ; your 
 French reminds me of an English usher in a 
 school at Boulogne, who is said to have gone up 
 to the head- master to complain of one of the 
 boys in these terms : ^ Monseer, cet anfang au 
 jing de la ba/ig, ne fait rien que de catchez des 
 flies: "
 
 124 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 Georgiana could not help laughing — still 
 there was sullenness in the tone in which she 
 replied, 
 
 '* Miss Benson taught me to pronounce 
 * enfant ' as ^ anfang/ and ' done ' as ^ dong ' — 
 and she had been in Paris/' 
 
 *' I never was out of my own country," re- 
 plied I ; ^^but my aunts, who taught me, resided 
 several years in Paris, and speak the language 
 like natives. I know their accent is pure, for 
 the Comtesses de Mirabeau have often been 
 staying at our house, so that I could compare 
 my aunt's accent with theirs. I heard the 
 Comtesse Anastasie laugh at the vulgar English, 
 who call ^ banc ' ^ bang ; ' -she told me the story 
 I have just repeated to you." 
 
 The mention of the Comtesse Anastasie de 
 Mirabeau rather took down Georgiana's pride. 
 She coloured violently, and tried to avoid 
 adding a " g " to words ending in " n " for the 
 rest of the lesson. 
 
 Then I desired her to write an exercise. 
 
 ** Ma and Miss Benson say exercises are no 
 use ; 1 learnt on the Hamiltonian system." 
 
 '' Of the advantages of which you have just 
 given me a notable instance. Miss Stanley, 
 may I remind you that I am the governess, and 
 you are the pupil ? It is my part to direct your 
 studies, and yours to follow my instructions. 
 Begin the first exercise."
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 125 
 
 Very slowly and unwillingly she arose, got 
 paper, pen, and ink, and commenced. Before 
 the exercise was half finished the door opened, 
 and the nurse entered. 
 
 "Miss Georgie, missis desires you'll go out 
 with Ann and the baby, and Master Charles. 
 IVe got baby's frocks and a few other things to 
 wash out, and missis doesn't like the children 
 being trusted alone with Ann." 
 
 Georgiana, nothing loth, threw down her pen, 
 and escaped the exercise. 
 
 *' Oh, I want to go out wis Sharly and baby ; 
 mayn't I go out, Miss Neville ? '' said little 
 Emma. 
 
 " Oh, yes, Miss Benson always let us 1 " said 
 Julia. 
 
 " Not till you have finished your lessons, my 
 dears ; then we will all go out together." 
 
 Symptoms of crying came on immediately, 
 and the nurse disappeared, to return presently 
 with — 
 
 " Missis thinks a walk would do Julia and 
 Emma good, Miss Neville, as it is such a fine 
 day ; and she says I am to put on their things^ 
 and send them with Ann." 
 
 Lucy and Beatrice, now left alone, declared 
 ** it was a shame, so it was, that they two should 
 be kept in school, when all the others went out 
 walking." They gave no attention to their 
 lessons — stood cross-legged while repeating
 
 126 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 them, fidgeted, yawned, twisted, and put in 
 requisition all those innumerable modes of annoy- 
 ance which naughty children inflict upon teachers 
 whom they wish to provoke ; but as I had 
 determined not to be provoked, and took no 
 notice of anything short of absolute disobedience, 
 the lesson and the morning came at last to an 
 end, without an open quarrel. 
 
 " It is twelve o'clock now,'^ said I, ^' go put 
 on your things, and we will walk to meet your 
 sisters." 
 
 I do not intend to inflict upon my readers 
 all my experiences as governess in the Stanley 
 family. I give a part of it, because that 
 family is the type of a very large class of 
 houses, where there is no order and no regu- 
 larity, and where insensibly, owing to the real 
 or fancied illness of the mother, or to want of 
 reflection and consideration, the eldest daugh- 
 ter sinks into a mere household drudge, at the 
 beck and call of its youngest member ; nay, 
 even of the very servants, who thus revenge 
 upon her the orders they are at other times 
 obliged to receive from her. Aud yet in all 
 these households the eldest daughter is blamed 
 for not improving herself. 
 
 Governors of other human beings, whether 
 emperors, ministers, or parents, are too apt to 
 imagine they can do no wrong, and that it is 
 the duty of the governed to accept injustice
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 127 
 
 and be thankful. Pity that the latter should 
 always be blmd to this fact. But as they are 
 so, it would be well if the administrative powers 
 sometimes sat dowm to consider whether they 
 were exercising their authority beneficially fur 
 those under them, and for themselves. Politics 
 are not a woman's forte, I eschew them ; but to 
 parents I, a parent, speak, 
 
 I know that you desire, above all things, that 
 your children should be prosperous, good, and 
 happy, and that they should be affectionately 
 united to one another, and tenderly dutiful to 
 you. All these right wishes you frustrate if 
 you make any one of them a slave to the 
 others. « 
 
 There are plenty of fashionable novelists for 
 fashionable people. To them I do not address 
 DQyself. It is not needed. The evil I wish to 
 do away with exists chiefly among the less 
 wealthy class of society. I have seen it with 
 my eyes in other families besides the Stanleys, 
 and I say and know that in English middle- 
 class families the elder daughter is too com- 
 monly made a slave. 
 
 It is her duty to assist her parents. Granted. 
 But is it not the duty of the younger children 
 to do so likewise ? Why is all the work to be 
 thrown on the eldest ? I have known that 
 family drudge sent at three and twenty from 
 the dinner-table, to deliver a message, because
 
 128 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 the other two girls, aged sixteen and fourteen, 
 were " too young," the father said, " to carry 
 one properly : " nor did they choose to do so 
 while the elder sister remained at home. 
 
 This unhappy plan destroys all family affec- 
 tion. The eldest girl secretly looks upon her- 
 self as a slave, and pines to marry to get away 
 from a life of drudgery. The younger ones 
 consider her in the light of an upper servant, 
 whose duty it is to work for them, and despise 
 her. They hate her because she is in some 
 sort set over them as a nursery governess ; and 
 grow up with the idea that she is ill-tempered, 
 because she has been obliged, contrary to her 
 own inclinations, 1^ hear their lessons, to see 
 that they kept their drawers tidy and mended 
 their clothes ; and to walk one way with them 
 when they wanted to walk another. They 
 speak of her as *' that cross old thing,'' and 
 often, nay generally, prevent her marrying. 
 The world takes the part of the younger sisters. 
 Such pretty girls cannot be " jealous;'^ but I have 
 seen far more younger sisters jealous of elder 
 ones, than elder sisters who were jealous of the 
 younger. I have seen more than once the lives 
 of elder sisters rendered utterly miserable by 
 the sneers, the temper, and the ill-nature of 
 younger ones, conscious that their youth and 
 beauty would enable them to taunt their faded, 
 care-worn sister with impunity, both in the
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 129 
 
 eyes of parents and visitors. The result may 
 be imagined. By slow but certain degrees 
 the elder sister loses her love for the little child 
 she has carried in her arms as a baby, saved 
 her money to buy toys for, petted and caressed 
 a thousand times, and nursed through many 
 an illness, in her angry and wounded feelings 
 towards the youn<x woman who ridicules her 
 both before her face and behind her back, 
 whose pleasure it is to mortify and to pairi her.* 
 
 *' I love Clarissa now, but when we were 
 children Rose and I — indeed all of us — quite 
 hated her," said a lady once to my aunts. 
 
 '' Why ? " asked my Aunt Joan. 
 
 ^^ Oh ! because she was set over us, to take 
 us out walking, and to hear us our lessons. 
 You may depend upon it, Joan, that it is bad 
 economy to make the elder girl governess to 
 the younger. It destroys all affection between 
 sisters. 1 have seen it done in many families 
 where I visited, and I never knew one case in 
 which it did not destroy family union.'' 
 
 This lady was a married woman when she 
 thus spoke, and both she and her elder sister 
 ■were remarkably gentle, amiable women, or the 
 painful past would not have been forgotten in 
 love. But Clarissa, when she grew up, left 
 her father's house against his expressed will, 
 
 * For the truth of this see Mary Howitt's admirable tale of 
 " The Elder Sister." 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 130 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 and went to reside with a 'friend, who ulti- 
 mately left her a large fortune. She had 
 learned to hate her home. 
 
 In the afternoon I and ray pupils re-assembled 
 in the school-room. Georgiana was soon sent 
 for to nurse the baby, while Dawson ironed 
 frocks, and Ann amused Charlie. At the 
 end of an hour baby went to sleep, and she 
 returned to her tasks. Presently Ann brought 
 a message, "" that Miss Georgie must make her 
 ma some tea, and carry it upstairs." The doing 
 this took half an hour. In the course of the 
 hour that remained she was sent for four diffe- 
 rent times. 
 
 ^' Mamma says I can do my lessons in the even- 
 ing," said she, the last time she returned. I 
 thought this hard ; I had calculated on having 
 the evenings for myself However, I soon found 
 Georgiana's lessons were confined to an hour's 
 practising. At six the whole family drank tea 
 together, and Mrs. Stanley objected to my return- 
 ing to the school-room afterwards. '' It was 
 useless," she said " to keep fire and candle 
 alight for one person — why could not I sit in 
 the same room as the family ? — a great many 
 young women in my position would feel flattered 
 by the invitation to do so?" 
 
 A great many mothers besides Mrs. Stanley 
 think governesses ought to be able to teach 
 everything by intuition, and require no time for
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 131 
 
 self-instruction. A great many besides Mrs. 
 Stanley expect them to fill up the intervals of 
 teaching by making, mending, and altering 
 children's clothes ; though they were not en- 
 gaged to do it, and though it compels them to 
 put out their own needle-work. 
 
 " Well," such a mother will say, ^' what of 
 that ? I give her a good salary, she can afford 
 to get her dresses made out." 
 
 Madam, out of that salary she has to save a 
 sum to support her in sickness and old age. 
 She cannot save much, for you expect her to dress 
 respectably. You have no right to diminish by 
 one farthing the small sum it is in her power to 
 lay by. 
 
 Thank God ! that during the years I was em- 
 ployed in tuition I never met anything like the 
 cruel ill-treatment I have personally known other 
 governesses experience.* Yet there were diffi- 
 
 • It is not above two or three years since a lady brought a 
 young girl in a state of stupor from illness to a railway carriage, 
 paid her fare, and gave money to the guard to pay her passage 
 by steamer to Boulogne. On landing she was carried in a dying 
 state to an inn, undressed, and put to bed. Seven pounds were 
 found sewn into her stays ; and some letters in her pocket, which 
 gave a clue as to her relatives. Her brother was telegraphed 
 for, and arrived a few hours after her death. She had been 
 governess in the family of a lady in London, Avho on her falling 
 sick took this way of getting rid of her. The whole story 
 appeared in the Times, but the name of her employer was merci- 
 fully withheld. No matter, it will be proclaimed when the 
 secrets of all hearts are revealed. A governess I knew broke 
 
 k2
 
 132 A FAMILY HISTORY 
 
 culties in my position at Mrs. Stanley's which 
 my youth and inexperience rendered me unable 
 to cope with. I was naturally averse to maktng 
 any complaints of Mrs. Stanley to her husband ; 
 and yet, unless I frankly stated the circum- 
 stances in which I was placed with regard to my 
 pupils, they could make no improvement, and 
 all the blame would fall on my inefficiency as a 
 teacher. I resolved to avoid naming Mrs. 
 Stanley, and to confine myself to a plain state- 
 ment of facts. 
 
 her arm. No doctor was called in for a fortnight. When one 
 came he ordered leeches. She had to put them on herself, with 
 her left hand. No one helped her. She lived in "a pious 
 family."
 
 133 
 
 CHAPTER YL 
 
 The week ended ; Mr. Stanley called me into the 
 school-room one morning directly after breakfast, 
 and, sending the children to play in the nursery 
 till they were wanted, demanded my report. 
 
 He wished to examine their books, and see 
 what they had learned in that time. 
 
 "Is this all?" said he, with a look of disap- 
 pointment ; '* why, Georgiana has done nothing ! " 
 
 " It was impossible she could do more, sir," I 
 replied, " when she was never more than an hour 
 in the school-room at one time ; and rarely that." 
 
 " Where was she?" 
 
 " I do not know. Attending, I believe, to Mrs. 
 Stanley, or the baby." 
 
 " To come to the point, how many hours a 
 day did she spend at her lessons ? " 
 
 '* Always one hour in the evening at her 
 music— I cannot say at other times, she was so 
 continually sent for. That is all she has done, 
 or could do, in the time. I do not wish to com- 
 plain, but you asked the question." 
 
 " I did, and wanted what I have got, a straight-
 
 134 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 forward answer. Now for the younger ones ; are 
 you satisfied with them ? They, at least, are 
 under your control?" 
 
 '^Not exactly, sir." 
 
 "How so?" 
 
 *^ Nurse often fetches the two youngest for a 
 walk, before they have done their short lessons ; 
 and then Lucy and Beatrice want to go too, 
 and become restless and dissatisfied. *' 
 
 " I should have thought the absence of the 
 two little ones during a part of the school-hours 
 would have been a boon?" 
 
 " Yes, sir, if they only went when their lessons 
 were over ; but as they are fetched before they 
 are finished, or in the middle of a lesson, they 
 feel I have no authority over them, and pay no 
 attention to what I say." 
 
 " It shall be remedied. Have you any other 
 observation to make ? " 
 
 I hesitated, coloured, and looked down. Mr. 
 Stanley saw it. 
 
 ** Speak out," said he ; " it is best." 
 
 " Then, sir. Miss Stanley is now fifteen ; if I 
 am to continue fit to teach her, my improvement 
 must keep pace with hers. I hoped, after the 
 duties of the school-room were over, to be at 
 liberty to improve myself" 
 
 " Who hinders you ? " said he. 
 
 "Mrs. Stanley disapproves of my staying here 
 alone, wasting fire and candle, instead of joining
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 135 
 
 the family party in an evening ; and she likes 
 me to help to make and mend the children's 
 clothes, which formed no part of my engagement. 
 If all my time is occupied, I must put out all 
 my own needlework, and that will run away with 
 a quarter's salary. I should be very glad to join 
 the i'amily circle part of the evening, but I hoped 
 to have time to keep my own wardrobe in repair, 
 and to improve in drawing, and other things in 
 which I feel my deficiency." 
 
 " You are quite right," said he. 
 
 *' There is one thing more, Mr. Stanley, which 
 I should like to say, if I felt sure you would not 
 deem it an impertinence." 
 
 *' Go on ; I wish to hear all you think." 
 
 *^ I hope you will not be displeased, sir. I 
 speak because I feel it right. I think it a pity 
 Miss Stanley should be sent all the errands of 
 the house. She thinks herself made a slave of, 
 and her younger sisters despise her, and look 
 upon her as an upper servant." 
 
 " Miss Neville, I do not see how that can be 
 avoided in Mrs. Stanley's delicate state of health" 
 — Mrs. Stanley ailed no more than I did, but by 
 continually talking of her bad health, she had 
 brought her husband to regard it as a fact — 
 *' Georgiana is the eldest daughter, and the others 
 are too young to deliver a message correctly, or 
 go on an errand." 
 
 ** Pardon me, sir ; I have often sent them to
 
 136 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 fetch things from my bedroom. They do not 
 take the trouble to deliver a message correctly, 
 I know, because they prefer to see Georgiana 
 sent with it ; but that they can take one if they 
 please, I have repeatedly proved. I think — I 
 hope you will pardon me — but I think Miss 
 Stanley's position in the house is equally injuri- 
 ous to her and to her sisters. They look upon 
 her as born to attend upon them, and she thinks 
 she is treated harshly. It would do Lucy and 
 Beatrice great good to take a few of her errands 
 off her hands." 
 
 ** I will think about it. Miss Neville. I see 
 there must be many reforms, or there can be no 
 improvement in the children." 
 
 The following Monday at breakfast time Mr. 
 Stanley promulgated his command, that Geor- 
 giana should enter the school-room every day at 
 nine, and not leave it again until twelve. Fur- 
 ther, when Mrs. Stanley's bell rang as usual at 
 breakfast time, he desired Lucy to answer it, 
 telling her it was high time she learnt to make 
 herself as useful as Georgiana had been, and 
 that she and Beatrice must now take it in turns 
 to carry up mamma's breakfast, while their elder 
 sister made tea, so that the meal might be sooner 
 over. Lucy and Beatrice did not look pleased, 
 but papa's word was law, from which there was 
 no appeal. They were found perfectly compe-
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 137 
 
 tent to carry up a tea-tray, or even a message. 
 
 After breakfast Georgian a was sent to receive 
 and transmit to the cook her mother's orders for 
 the day ; and at nine o'clock Mr. Stanley him- 
 self saiv that she joined me in the school-room. 
 
 The nurse was forbidden to fetch any of the 
 children until I rang for her. Mr. Stanley 
 thought two hours' confinement enough for the 
 two youngest ones. At eleven, unless in dis- 
 grace, they were to go out walking with the 
 nurse. Lucy and Beatrice were to remain at 
 their studies till twelve, and then go out with 
 me if it was fine ; if not, to go and romp in the 
 nursery. 
 
 My authority thus strengthened by the father's, 
 I had a chance of doing something with them. 
 They became more respectful in their manners, 
 and their lessons were better learnt. 
 
 But out of the school-room, and often in it, 
 Georgiana gave me great trouble. All her move- 
 ments were awkward, her manners were unplea- 
 sant and supercilious, her whole appearance care- 
 less and slovenly. She would have a sandal on one 
 foot, none on the other, and a torn or soiled 
 frock. Her collar was generally put on crooked, 
 and her hair was always tangled, rough, and 
 hanging about her face and neck in wild disorder. 
 Now that she had time ta attend to her person, 
 she was just as untidy as when she was really 
 harassed to death by running perpetual errands,
 
 138 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 and had all the cares of the household on her 
 young shoulders. She still looked the family 
 drudge. She was not fond of reading anything 
 but a story., she took no interest in her lessons, 
 and she treated me with a familiarity bordering 
 upon insolence. 
 
 Mrs. Stanley, who had of course been greatly 
 displeased at all the reforms I had been the 
 means of introducing, remarked daily that she 
 saw '^ no improvement in Georgie, notwith- 
 standing all the fine new ways." 
 
 " I suppose that's the first cap you ever wore ?" 
 said Georgie to me one day, when I came down 
 to breakfist in my cap and cr^pe front, in order 
 to look as old and dignified as possible ; ^^ and I 
 daresay the wig was your aunt's. Now, I • sup- 
 pose you think you look very womanish — but 
 you're only two years older than me. I know 
 your age, for I heard ma talking to papa about 
 you before you came." 
 
 I do think school-girls have a positive genius 
 for saying disagreeable things. My age was pre- 
 cisely the subject I was most tender upon, be- 
 cause I felt my youth and inexperience unfitted 
 me to be the governess of an unsubdued girl of 
 fifteen. 1 was always endeavouring to look old and 
 grave, and Georgiana saw and quizzed my efforts. 
 
 I seated myself at the breakfast-table in 
 dignified silence, and made my audacious pupil 
 no reply.
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 139 
 
 What was more provoking still was, that 
 there was a flickering smile in Mr. Stanley's 
 blue eyes, as he glanced from the newspaper, in 
 which he affected to be absorbed, to my cap and 
 
 I tried to win Georgian a in every way : for 
 some time without effect. She abhorred exer- 
 tion, and I exacted it — how could she like me ? 
 
 By-and-bye her difficulties lessened — the path 
 grew wider, smoother ; she saw that the rough 
 roads of learning led to valleys full of fruits and 
 flowers, and green pleasant shades. After three 
 months' steady application to French she per- 
 ceived that there was use in all those exercises 
 and dictations ; her ear became familiarized with 
 its accent, her mind with its idioms : she read it 
 with as much ease as English. She had im- 
 proved, too, in music ; for which, I felt con- 
 vinced, she had a real talent, though of course 
 I was not her teacher, since I did not play. 
 
 Mrs. Stanley said derisively, '' Georgie would 
 never do more than strum ; Beaty was the 
 musician of the family, and Miss Scott, the 
 music-mistress, agreed with her." 
 
 I thought Miss Scott taught badly, and 
 wished Georgiana had a good master. Mr. 
 Stanley heard me say so. 
 
 ^* What master would you recommend, Miss 
 Neville ? "
 
 140 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 '' Mr. Salt ; he taught the Miss Molesworths, 
 and they play beautifully ; I heard them play 
 the night they drank tea here.'^ 
 
 ^' So they do," said he ; "I think it would be 
 a good plan to have him." 
 
 Mr. Salt was engaged, and Miss Scott dis- 
 missed. Mrs. Stanley chose to be present the 
 day he gave his first lesson. 
 
 " Georgie 'as no ear for music," said she ; 
 ^^ but Beaty will play sweetly." 
 
 *' Let me hear what you can do, Miss Stanley," 
 said Mr. Salt. 
 
 She opened her book, and played some piece, 
 I forget what. 
 
 ^' Stop," said Mr. Salt, when she had played 
 a page, '^ that is all wrong." 
 
 " I told you Georgie 'ad no taste," observed 
 Mrs. Stanley. 
 
 Mr. Salt, without replying, played the passage 
 over again. Georgiana listened like one spell- 
 bound. 
 
 ^'Try and play it in the same way," said he. 
 
 She began. Of course she soon broke down, 
 but she had caught style, touch, expression ; 
 she shewed that the talent was there, but not 
 the manual dexterity necessary for displaying it. 
 !^r. Salt turned round to Mrs. Stanley : 
 
 ^^ Your daughter has been very badly taught ; 
 but she will make a splendid performer, if she 
 takes j)ains"
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 141 
 
 Georgiana coloured with pleiisure up to her 
 very ears. Music was her passion ; the only- 
 thing she really liked, and her mother had always 
 said she had no taste for it. 
 
 Mrs. Stanley replied in a voice of pique, 
 
 " I've always 'eard Miss Scott was con- 
 sidered a good mistress." 
 
 '^Miss Scott!" said Mr. Salt; ''I have had 
 pupils of hers hefore. I have always found I 
 had to unteach them all she had tauG^ht. You 
 heard how Miss Stanley played that piece ; did 
 it sound like this ? " 
 
 He played it from beginning to end, giving 
 each note its true time and expression. Mrs. 
 Stanley had a correct ear. 
 
 ^^Ah!" said she, *' that is not as Miss 
 Scott played it ; it is very different. I 
 thought it mere common child's music ; I now 
 see it is very beautiful." 
 
 *'No music would be beautiful if played in- 
 correctly as to time, and without any attention 
 to the spirit of the composition, to what painters 
 call light and shade, for on those the whole har- 
 mony of the piece depends," said the master. 
 
 Mrs. Stanley was a perfect Mrs. Malaprop. 
 She delighted in a fine phrase or a long word. 
 Mr. Salt's illustration completed the conquest 
 his fine playing had begun. She was quite 
 satisfied with Miss Scott's dismissal, and noted 
 his observations down for use on some future
 
 142 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 occasion. Not long after I heard her telling 
 Mrs. Best, the curate's wife, that she was afraid 
 she must part with her cook: 
 
 ^^ For," said she, "" if I give 'er a receipt, 
 she pays no attention to the spirit of the com- 
 position — to what painters call * light and 
 shade.' She sent me up a bread-and-butter- 
 pudding the other day with all the currants 
 at one end ; and when she makes a veal-pie, 
 she never arranges it 'armoniously, but puts 
 all the eggs in one corner, and all the force- 
 meat-balls in another. Sometimes 'er soups 
 are so salt we can't eat them, and sometimes 
 they've no taste at all." 
 
 ^' Servants are great plagues, I think," re- 
 turned Mrs. Best. *' We were staying at the 
 sea-side when we were from home, and we had 
 a wretched cook in our lodgings." 
 
 '^ And how did you like Sea Marsh ? " asked 
 Mrs. Stanley. 
 
 " Not at all. It's a wretched, dull place, and 
 has not even pretty scenery to recommend it ; 
 I was heartily glad to come home." 
 
 "Well," drawled Mrs. Stanley, ''but, after 
 all, you ought not to complain, for you 'ad 
 shrimps and other little perquisites to make 
 up for the dulness." 
 
 '^ Ah ! " replied Mrs. Best, as she rose to de- 
 part, '' I should require more perquisites than
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 143 
 
 shrimps to make me like such a dull, flat, level, 
 uninteresting coast as Sea Marsh." 
 
 "How industrious you are, Miss Neville!" 
 said Georgiana, looking up one day from her 
 work ; *' you might be embroidering that collar 
 for a wager." 
 
 " Yes," said I, quietly ; " I want it finished," 
 and I worked on. I had great projects of what 
 that collar was to achieve. It was done at last, 
 and sent to the wash. When it came home I 
 sat up one night in my bedroom, made up a 
 pretty pink bow, affixed it to tlie collar, and 
 laid both carefully away in my drawer. 
 
 A day or two afterwards, as I was bending over 
 her French dictation, to see if she was spelling 
 a word correctly, I said, " You have beautiful 
 hair, Georgiana, if you did not do it so badly. 
 1 wish you would let me dress it for you this 
 evening ; you know Mr. and Mrs. Best are com- 
 ing to tea." 
 
 " Oh ! my hair ; I can't do it well — I've no 
 taste, as ma says." 
 
 " Not for hair-dressing certainly, Georgie ; or 
 perhaps it islike yourmusicaltaste — undeveloped. 
 You may be found some day to have a latent 
 talent even for dressing hair." 
 
 She laughed. Her face was pleasant when 
 she smiled, and now she smiled often. Since 
 she had ceased to be the family drudge, and
 
 144 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 discovered that she could get through her lessons 
 without such very great hibour, her countenance 
 had begun to lose the sullen, hopeless, careless 
 expression that had characterised it. ^' Come to 
 my room at half-past five," I went on ; '^ I shall 
 be dressing then, and you can fasten my gown, 
 and save Ann the trouble. '^ 
 
 My arms were lithe and pliant ; I could fasten 
 my dress behind perfectly well ; but I knew 
 that if I asked Georgiana to do it, it would 
 ensure her coming to my room. She had begun 
 of late to show an interest in my looking well. 
 
 She came at the appointed time, with two 
 bouquets in her hand — one for me, the other for 
 herself. She had put on the dress she usually 
 wore in an afternoon — a plain white gown, made 
 high up to the neck ; but her hair was as slovenly 
 and untidy as usual. 
 
 I made her sit down, turning up the glass 
 that she might not see what I was doing ; but 
 she never thought of looking — she had heard so 
 much of her awkwardness, her ugliness, that she 
 did not care about her appearance. She began 
 to talk, and to untwist and comb out her rich 
 tresses of blue-black hair. She wore it in large 
 heavy curls in front, and a shapeless twist behind. 
 I plaited the long black hair, and fastened it up 
 in a knot, after the fashion of a Greek statne. I 
 braided the thick ringlets so as to leave her 
 beautiful forehead and flexible arched eyebrows
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 145 
 
 bare, and to develop the graceful contour of her 
 head and throat. Then I went to my drawer, 
 pulled out the collar I had worked and adorned 
 with the pink bow, and fastened it round her neck. 
 
 ^' Now, Georgiana," said I, pulling down the 
 looking-glass, '' look at yourself, and tell me 
 what you think of my talents for hair-dressing." 
 
 She glanced carelessly at the mirror ; then an 
 expression of surprise and pleasure flushed into 
 her face, as she saw the graceful form it reflected. 
 
 " I don't know myself," said she naively. 
 " How much better I look ! And that pretty 
 collar, too. How kind in you to lend it me ! " 
 
 '^ It is not a loan, Georgie," said I ; '^ I worked 
 it for you. I wanted you to see what a tine- 
 looking girl you might be if, as Mr. Salt said, 
 *you took pains' with yourself." 
 
 Then I finished my own toilette ; and while I 
 did so, she stood talking to me, ever and anon 
 casting a glance of innocent gratification at the 
 mirror. 
 
 ** I am making acquaintance with myself, Miss 
 Neville," said she, as she caught my eye after 
 one of these glances. 
 
 " So I perceive, Georgie, and I hope you will 
 never drop the acquaintance." 
 
 We went down to the drawing-room together. 
 I saw her fiither give a glance of startled sur- 
 prise, which changed to a smile of pleasure, as 
 she entered. Mrs. Stanley said, 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 146 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 ^^ Law ! Georgie, 'ow queer youVe done your 
 Vir!" 
 
 ^^I never saw her look so well before !" ex- 
 claimed Mr. and Mrs. Best, in one breath, as 
 she advanced to shake hands with them. 
 
 Several times that night I saw Mr. Stanley's 
 eyes turn on her with a gratified expression, and 
 I felt proud of my work. When she bid him 
 good night, after the visitors had departed, he 
 called her back as she was leaving the room, 
 gave her a second kiss, and whimpered something 
 in her ear, at which she smiled and blushed. I 
 took my candle and went to my own bedroom. 
 Georgie bounded in almost immediately after- 
 wards. 
 
 "■ Oh ! Miss Neville,'' said she, '^ Papa says he 
 hopes he shall always see me look as I looked 
 to-night, and he gave me half a sovereign to buy 
 pink bows, or what I liked, with." 
 
 ^^ No, Georgie, not pink bows," I said. " I 
 have often heard your father complain of your 
 untidy hair when you rode out with him. You 
 must buy a black straw riding- hat like Melusina 
 Beauchamp's, and I will trim it for you. I saw 
 one in the village yesterday." 
 
 The next day we bought the hat, and I trimmed 
 it during afternoon school. We also contrived 
 to buy a dark -blue silk handkerchief out of the 
 half-sovereign. The very morning afterwards 
 Mr. Stanley put his head in at the school-room door.
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 147 
 
 ^' Miss Neville, I am going to ride to Burton 
 this morning ; I should like Georgie to go with 
 me. Can you spare her ? " 
 
 I assented gladly. " She has done her les- 
 sons so well for some time, she deserves a holiday, 
 sir." 
 
 '^ Has she ? I am glad to hear it. Make 
 haste and get ready," said the pleased father. 
 
 " I will go and help her. I can be spared 
 here ; Lucy and Beatrice have their lessons set 
 them, and the little ones are learning their 
 spelling." I went, and saw that the hair was 
 properly fastened up, and tied on both the hat 
 and the new blue cravat, as Melusina wore hers ; 
 and then descended with Georgie. She looked 
 so well that I was quite mortified Mr. Stanley 
 did not notice it ; but he merely rose from his 
 seat, patted Julia and Emma on the head, and 
 bade them say good lessons, and remarking, 
 '^ You have not been long in putting on your 
 habit, Georgie," strode out of the room, followed 
 by his daughter. 
 
 He was a little behind time in his return, and 
 we had to wait dinner for him. As it was bringing 
 up, and while Georgiana was upstairs changing 
 her dress, he approached me, and said confi- 
 dentially, 
 
 '^ I don't know whether it's the new hat, or 
 the new style of doing the hair, or what you've 
 done to Georgie, Miss Neville^ but she is not 
 
 l2
 
 148 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 like the same girl she was when you came. I 
 declare to you, that when she had got a colour 
 with riding, every man in Burton turned round 
 to look at her." 
 
 What fiither is there that is not proud of a 
 beautiful daughter? 
 
 This was the bright side of the medal. It had 
 its obverse. Mrs. Stanley was by no means so 
 well pleased with my improvement as her hus- 
 band. She could not forgive my having inter- 
 fered with the family arrangements, so far as to 
 secure Georgiana's regular attendance in the 
 school-room, and persisted in thinking herself 
 ill-used and neglected, in which belief she was 
 strengthened and encouraged by her confidant, 
 the head-nurse, Dawson, who had found it a 
 great relief at times to set Miss Georgie to 
 nurse the baby and look after the little ones ; 
 and who was highly indignant at being told none 
 of the children were to be interfered with when 
 in the school-room with me. Then Mrs. Stanley 
 liked to be thought young, and the more Georgi- 
 ana improved in manner and appearance, the 
 more womanly she looked ; the more of necessity 
 must people think her old, since she was the 
 mother of a daughter so nearly grown up. Mrs. 
 Stanley wanted to put Time's clock back, not 
 forward ; and she laid all these misfortunes to 
 my door.
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 149 
 
 " Georgie was a mere simple, confiding child 
 when Miss Neville came," said she, *' she 'as 
 made 'er a forward girl. I 'ate preciosity" — she 
 meant precocity ; but that was a small slip for 
 Mrs. Stanley to make. 
 
 I had calculated on exciting all this ill-will, 
 and on my consequent dismissal, when I spoke 
 to Mr. Stanley about my utter want of control 
 over my pupils, so long as their hours of study 
 were continually broken in upon ; but I had done 
 what 1 thought right, and did not repent. Mrs. 
 Stanley thought if I was dismissed everything 
 would fall into its old train. I was sitting alone 
 in the drawing-room one evening, when husband 
 and wife entered without observing my presence. 
 I did not wish to play the part of a listener, but 
 as they were speaking of me when they came in 
 I felt an awkwardness in letting them know I had 
 heard their conversation, and so kept quiet. 
 
 " George," said Mrs. Stanley, as she held open 
 the door, " I intend to part with Miss Neville. 
 She does not suit my idears of what a gover- 
 ness ought to be. I've 'ad a letter from Mrs. 
 'Ale this morning, and she mentions a young 
 French lady, who is out of a situation, and 
 would come for ten pounds a year less than Miss 
 Neville, and it would be such a perdigious 
 advantage to the children to learn French of 
 a native Parishun." 
 
 " Very well, ray dear. I thought Miss Neville
 
 150 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 taught French remarkably well ; but do as you 
 please/^ was his cool reply, as he passed out of the 
 sashed window into the flower-garden. Mrs. 
 Stanley followed him, and I made my escape, and 
 ran up to my own room, where I locked myself 
 in, and gave way to a violent burst of tears. 1 
 felt hurt and wounded. From Mrs. Stanley I 
 expected no better, but I did think Mr. Stanley 
 had appreciated my strenuous endeavours to do 
 my duty to his children, and my heart throbbed 
 with a sense of wrong and injustice. 
 
 Looking back to that time, I see that it was I 
 that was unjust> What right had I to expect that 
 Mr. Stanley would risk the chance of a disagree- 
 ment with his wife for a governess ? It was far 
 better that I should be sent away, than that any 
 words should arise between husband and wife. 
 Sisters in-law and mothers-in-law, and all people 
 who are fond of lecturing others on the manage- 
 ment of their families, should remember that a 
 small evil is preferable to a great one. They do 
 more harm than good, if they put an end to any 
 folly by lessening the esteem and respect of hus- 
 band and wife for each other, and creating dis- 
 union between them. No third party should 
 interfere between man and wife. 
 
 I was not then married. I did not reflect 
 upon all this. I saw, as people usually do, only 
 what affected myself. ^^ Always the same ! " I 
 cried : "do what I will, I please no one. 1 la-
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 151 
 
 boured — another will have the praise and the 
 reward. I phint the flower — another enjoys its 
 beauty, and inhales its rich fragrance." Then I 
 remembered that the glory lay not in the reward, 
 but the work. To sow our seed, to till our fields 
 — that was the labour appointed us ; but who 
 should gather the increase depended upon God. 
 I crushed down my rebellious thoughts, and or- 
 dered myself to rejoice that I had been of some 
 use to Georgiana ; and then ray tears flowed 
 afresh, as I thought how hard it was to be obliged 
 to leave her just when I had gained a beneficial 
 influence over her mind and affections — just, in 
 fact, Avhen she was becoming very dear to me. 
 
 The following day Mrs. Stanley gave me notice 
 to leave. She inquired blandly when it would 
 suit me to go, " as I 'ave 'eard of a young 
 Parishun, and of course, you know, Miss Neville, 
 it would be such a advantage to the children 
 to learn French from a native whose axioms 
 are perfect ; that it is better to lose no time 
 in engaging 'er." 
 
 '' Certainly, ma'am," replied I, curtly. " I 
 should be sorry to deprive you of such an inestim- 
 able advantage ; I will write at once to my aunt's, 
 and let you know when they can receive me." 
 
 I wrote, and stated the case to my aunt Diana. 
 By return of post I received a very kind letter 
 from her, in which she invited me to make Hil- 
 ton my home until I heard of another situation.
 
 152 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 On the receipt uf this missive I proceeded to 
 the drawing-room, where Mrs. Stanley reclined 
 in state on one of the sofas, reading a fashion- 
 able novel ; and forcing myself to look cool 
 and calm, informed her that, as my aunt§ could 
 receive me at once, I would leave the Eectory 
 the following Monday — it was then Friday. 
 
 " Oh, Miss Neville, there's no 'urry ! " she 
 repeated ; *' no 'urry, I don't wish to be un- 
 kind ; only as the French young lady is dis- 
 engaged, I thought the sooner she came the 
 better — on Monday, you say — I will write 
 and tell 'er." 
 
 And she put aside her novel with alacrity, 
 ;ind opened her writing-desk. 
 
 ''And I will pay you your salary now. Miss 
 Neville, if you will come to my study," said 
 Mr. Stanley, looking up from his paper. He 
 rose, and went out ; and I followed, sick at 
 heart, and pained that everybody should be so 
 glad to get rid of me. I did not know Mr. 
 Stanley. 
 
 He sat down, wrote a receipt, and handed it 
 me to sign, together with fifty pounds. 
 
 "But I have only been here a little more 
 than nine months, sir," I said. 
 
 " I know it, but you have a right to a quarter's 
 notice ; 1 am sorry you are going, you have im- 
 proved the children amazingly. Had I been a 
 richer man, I should have given you more — being
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 153 
 
 a poor one, I give you only yo\ir just due. I 
 shall always be glad to hear of your welfare; and 
 when you require a character write to me as 
 well as to Mrs. Stanley — I am sure she will be 
 happy to give you the recommendation you have 
 merited by the pains you have taken with our 
 children." He held out his hand, and gave mine 
 a hearty shake. I left the room with a tearful 
 eye and a lightened heart — my efforts had not 
 been utterly unappreciated. My desk was in 
 the school-room, and in it I kept the keys of my 
 trunks. I went for them, intending to lock up 
 the money Mr. Stanley had just given me. I 
 found it in a perfect hubbub of excitement. Mrs. 
 Stanley had just left it, after announcing my 
 approaching departure, and the advent of the 
 Parisian. Emma and Julia sat on the floor crying; 
 Lucy and Beatrice looked pale, grave, and frigh- 
 tened at the prospect of a governess who could 
 speak nothing but French, and whom their 
 mamma told them they must always address in 
 that language. Georgie was pacing up and down 
 in a towering passion of anger, regret, and grief. 
 
 *^It's too bad!" exclaimed she, as 1 entered; 
 " first, they railed me for being idle, slovenly, 
 and careless ; and then they send away the 
 person who has taught me to wish to improve. 
 I know why it is — mamma thinks '^ 
 
 I put my hand on her mouth. 
 
 ** My dear Georgie; hush ! — do not let your
 
 154 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 mother have ^ause to say that I encouraged 
 you to speak disrespectfully of her. Surely 
 she has a right to change her governess if she 
 likes it." Georgie was silenced, but not ap- 
 peased. The old cloudy expression returned to 
 her face. Anger and sullenness sat throned 
 upon her brow, as she took her place that day 
 at the dinner-table." 
 
 Her father looked at her. 
 
 " Louisa, my dear," said he to his wife, 
 *' will you be kind enough to direct nurse to 
 pack up Georgie's books, music, and clothes ? I 
 think with you that no young lady so near her 
 own age as Miss Neville or Mademoiselle 
 Lenoir can manage her, and therefore I yester- 
 day made arrangements with the Miss Carpen- 
 ters for her entering their school. They have 
 kindly consented to recei^^e her at once, and I 
 intend to drive her over there on Monday. 
 The trunks can go by coach." 
 
 Mrs. Stanley was thunderstruck. This was 
 a termination to her coup-detat that she had 
 never foreseen. However, like a good general, 
 she rallied her forces and covered her defeat as 
 well as she could, simply saying, as if she had 
 all along expected and known of it, 
 
 " Very well, my dear. I will tell Dawson 
 to pack them." 
 
 She afterwards confided to me, of all people, 
 first, '* Mr. Stanley did sometimes take the
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 155 
 
 strangest whims into 'is 'ead, when nothink 
 would turn 'im, 'e is such a deciduous character,'' 
 said she; ''and this fancy of sending Georgie 
 to school is one of 'is extraordinary aUusions;" 
 •and next, her extreme regret that Georgie 
 should lose this '' invaluable opportunity of ac- 
 quiring French from a Parishun. Miss Lenoir, 
 Miss Neville, 'as lived in some of the most 
 imminent situations, and I'm told," said she, 
 smiling and shutting her eyes, and then slowly 
 opening them, which was her way of expressing 
 delight, " that 'er locations are peculiarly 
 elegant. You know, my dear Miss Neville, 
 it's so much better to embrue the stream at 
 the fountain 'ead, before its dilution by passing 
 through other 'ands." 
 
 I have little more to say of my stay at 
 Weston Rectory. The three days passed away 
 slowly and heavily to all parties. I believe we 
 were none of us really sorry when Monday came. 
 
 Georgie would share my bed the last night, 
 and neither rested herself nor let me rest, for 
 she cried the whole night. I was annoyed, for 
 1 had two days' travelling before me, and wanted 
 a good night's repose before starting ; but how 
 could I be angry with a violence of feeling which 
 had its rise in affection ? She made me promise 
 again and again to write to her, kissed me, and 
 bade me good night, a hundred times — and then,
 
 156 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 when I was just falling asleep, woke me bj sob- 
 hiujx- We both descended to the breakfast-table 
 next morning with pale cheeks and red eyes. 
 Neither of us could eat ; no one was inclined to 
 talk. The meal passed in almost total silence.* 
 At nine o'clock the same coach that had brought 
 me there stopped at the Eectory door to take 
 me away. There was a kissing and leave-taking 
 of the children, who all roared; a close, convul- 
 sive embrace from Georgie ; a hearty shake of 
 the hand, with ^' Good-bye — God bless you — write 
 and say you get home safe," from Mr. Stanley, 
 as he put me into the coach : the door was 
 banged to, the coachman cracked his whip, the 
 guard's horn sounded, and I found myself tra- 
 velling back to the home I had quitted nine 
 months before. 
 
 ^^ I said she would come back, like a bad 
 shilling ! " observed my aunt Joan, triumphantly.
 
 157 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 When I opened my eyes the morning after my 
 return to Hilton, and found myself in the same 
 white-curtained bed in which I had slept ever 
 since I was nine years old, and, gazing vacantly 
 round the room, recognized, one by one, all the 
 familiar objects — the white-painted wash-stand 
 and dressing-table, with its little looking-glass 
 standing on it, the oak-painted chest- of- drawers, 
 and the paper on the walls, so spotlessly clean, 
 but ugly and inharmonious, like everything 
 chosen by my aunt Joan — I felt as if I had just 
 awakened from a dream. 
 
 I rubbed my eyes — there was that hideous 
 pale yellow-papered wall. How well I knew 
 the pattern — how often I had counted its 
 stripes ! Seven narrow lines of orange, each 
 gradually diminishing in breadth on one side, 
 six similar lines of dark blue on the other, 
 forming together one broad stripe upon a lemon 
 coloured ground. There, too, were the bare, 
 well-scrubbed boards, the narrow slip of blue 
 and brown bedside carpet, the two rush chairs
 
 158 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 by the window — all neat, bare, cold, comfortless, 
 after my luxuriously carpeted bedroom at Wes- 
 ton, with its fireplace, its soft rug in front, its 
 small table, and well-cushioned arm-chair, which 
 I had been accustomed to draw close to the fire 
 and luxuriate in before going to bed. 
 
 Heavens ! the thought of my having a fire in 
 my bedroom, and sitting over it in a soft- 
 cushioned arm-chair, would have driven my aunt 
 Diana mad had she known it ! 
 
 She belonged to a generation which disdained 
 such effeminate luxuries, whose backs were un- 
 acquainted with sofas, and stiffened into iron at 
 the very thought of arm-chairs ! 
 
 Her own bedroom — large, wide, square — was 
 not one whit better furnished than mine. From 
 its size it looked all the more comfortless, with 
 its bare white boards, and their four narrow 
 strips of carpet before the drawers, in front of 
 the dressing-table, and on two sides of the bed. 
 And as to a fire ! I never knew her have one, 
 unless she was confined to her bed ; and then 
 the very sight of it — ^just a few red cinders 
 in the narrow little grate, that threw out no 
 heat — seemed to annoy her more that her ill- 
 ness. That could not be helped ; but the fire, 
 a. mere whim of Mr. Jones', that was adding in- 
 sult to injury. 
 
 ^^ Truly our forbears did not care for comfort 
 or ease," I thought, as I mentally compared the
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 159 
 
 luxuriously furnished bedrooms of Weston Rec- 
 tory with the desolate, dreary-looking chambers 
 in ray aunt's house. 
 
 I descended into the drawing-room. Nothing 
 seemed changed. The very pin-cushion on the 
 long table stood precisely where it did when I 
 left Hilton. All looked clean, neat, stiff, and 
 formal as ever. I could not believe I had been 
 away nine months ; yet I knew that if I had 
 been absent nineteen years all would have looked 
 precisely the same when I returned. 
 
 One after another my aunts came down. My 
 aunt Diana was a picture, with her clear com- 
 plexion and her beautiful yet severe features 
 shaded by her own curling silver hair, and 
 dressed in her old-fashioned, high-crowned mob- 
 cap, with its pearl-white ribbons, and the purple 
 silk gown. I had seen nothing like her since I 
 went away. Both she and my aunt Theodosia 
 dressed like old ladies, as they were : no false 
 fronts, no artificial flowers, to make yellow skins 
 and wrinkled cheeks look more faded ; and yet 
 their dress was not peculiar. It was a kind of 
 mediaeval structure, blending the taste of two 
 far-distant epochs — tlie close-fitting mob-cap, 
 with its falls of soft lace, belonged to the past ; 
 the silken gown, cut after the fashion of the day, 
 appertained to the present. Both my aunts had 
 been more than commonly beautiful in youth, 
 and both were beautiful in age. The brilliant
 
 160 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 colouring, the freshness, the gay smiling loveli- 
 ness of early life had gone by — morning had 
 long faded, noon passed, the shadows of evening 
 descended. Old age seemed like the soft moon- 
 light to veil all discrepancies, hide all asperities, 
 tone down and neutralize whatever was too 
 harsh or salient, and shed over all a pure and 
 holy calm, that at once softened and endeared. 
 
 After breakfast I had to detail the reasons, so 
 far as I knew or guessed them, which had led to 
 my dismissal from Weston Eectory. 
 
 " It is only what I foresaw and expected," 
 observed my aunt Joan, when I had concluded ; 
 *^ I knew she would stay nowhere." 
 
 My aunt Joan always took the very worst 
 possible view of everything I thought, said, or 
 did. I was so thoroughly aware of this that her 
 opinion never affected me in the least. One 
 wearies of trying to please a person who is pre- 
 determined never to be pleased. 
 
 *^ Well," said my aunt Theodosia, " I don't 
 see, Lizzy, how you were to blame. Of course 
 you coiddn't improve the children if they weren't 
 allowed to be under your control." 
 
 *^And, of course," said my aunt Joan, in her 
 usual satirical manner, ^' a young girl of seven- 
 teen was a better judge of the plan to be pursued 
 than the mother of the family. I knew Eliza- 
 beth's self-sufficiency would lead to her dis- 
 missal, go where she would."
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 161 
 
 This speech was like one of the wnr weapons 
 used by some savage race of men — but whether 
 South Sea Islanders or American Indians I for- 
 get — and which consist of a leather thong with 
 a heavy weight affixed to each end : one stone 
 went flop against ray poor little aunt The's peri- 
 cranium, and plainly indicated what a weak- 
 minded fool my clever aunt thought her for 
 coinciding in my views of the subject ; and the 
 other was meant as a staggerer for me — just to 
 floor me, and annihilate at once any pleasant 
 little ideas I might have been nourishing about 
 having done my duty; by shewing me that, in 
 her opinion, which of course was that of all sen- 
 sible people, I had simply acted like an ass. 
 
 " Mr. Stanley says in his letter, Joan, that the 
 children improved greatly under Miss Neville's 
 care, and that both he and Mrs. Staidey will be 
 most happy to attest their perfect approbation of 
 her conduct while their governess, " observed my 
 aunt Diana; ''he gives, as a reason for parting 
 with her, the fact that he thought her too young 
 to manage a girl so near her own age as his 
 eldest daughter. I know what girls are ; I dare 
 say this Miss Georgiana is a high-spirited, for- 
 ward lassie : is she not, Elizabeth?" 
 
 '' liather so, aunt Diana." 
 
 *' Well, well ; it is done, and you are here 
 again. We must look out for another situation, 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 162 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 where the eldest daughter is not near as old as 
 yourself." 
 
 And we did look out, but the situation was 
 not to be found. My aunt Joan daily harangued 
 upon the folly and ingratitude of young women 
 who never knew when thev were well off, but 
 must go tramping the world in search of misfor- 
 tunes ; and recurred again and again to her 
 favourite comparison of the bad shilling, till I had 
 fully and completely felt the truth of Solomon's 
 maxim, that *^ bread eaten in the house of another 
 is bitter;" and resolved inwardly to accept the 
 very first situation that should offer, and to stay 
 in it, comfortable or uncomfortable, if my em- 
 ployers would keep me. 
 
 I heard of one at last, through Melusina Beau- 
 champ. She rode over from the abbey one morn- 
 ing on horseback. 
 
 " Lizzie,'' said she, as she sat down after the 
 usual greetings, ^' I've heard of a situation, and 
 I'm come, as I promised I would, to tell you of 
 it ; but mind, Mrs. Neville," she added, turning 
 to my aunt Diana, ^^ I don't advise her to take it, 
 for I wouldn't send any friend of mine to such a 
 place." 
 
 ^' Where is it, Melusina?" I cried. 
 
 **Lady Tanner wants an English under-gover- 
 ness. Madame St. Croix is the head governess 
 at White Cross Priory. But, Lizzie, if you go 
 you'll be wretched. Lady Tanner is con-
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 163 
 
 tinually changing her governesses — no one can 
 stay there ; and I don't wonder — for though the 
 Tanners are ray own friends, and I like them very 
 much, I would not be governess there upon any 
 account." 
 
 *' But if you like them, Melusina — and I have 
 always heard the Miss Tanners well spoken of, as 
 remarkably amiable girls — what objection can there 
 be to Elizabeth's accepting the situation of gover- 
 ness at White Cross Priory?" said my aunt Joan, 
 pleased at the prospect of my going anywhere, 
 where I was likely to be unhappy. 
 
 Melusina hesitated for a few minutes, then, 
 looking up, said frankly, 
 
 *' I don't like to speak ill of my intimate 
 friends — and the Tanners are my intimate friends, 
 and very kind to me, who am not their governess. 
 They are very good people. Lady Tanner and 
 her daughters are remarkably religious ; but for 
 all that, as I said before, I know no family in 
 which I should so little like to be governess. 
 In the first place, their pride and hauteur are 
 extreme. They will make Lizzie feel her sub- 
 ordinate position in every possible way, and yet 
 leave her no ground of complaint. Lady Tanner 
 is pride personified. I cannot understand how 
 a person professing so much religion can be so 
 proud. The girls are the same. Besides that, 
 the four grown up daughters take it upon them 
 to interfere with and direct the governesses of 
 
 M 2
 
 164 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 their five younger sisters, and I think do more 
 harm than good by such interference. Elizabeth 
 will have so many people to please, she never 
 can suit them all. First, Lady Tanner, who is 
 very particular and strict ; then the four eldest 
 Miss Tanners ; and afterwards that Madame St. 
 Croix, of whom I know nothing. I wouldn't 
 go — Td rather be a housemaid !" cried Melusina, 
 energetically. 
 
 " What is the remuneration offered ?" I asked. 
 
 *^ Fifty pounds a year, and the honour of 
 being governess to the Miss Tanners. Don't 
 take it, Lizzie." 
 
 '' I will, if I can get it," I answered. 
 
 *' As to that, I can get it you to-morrow. A 
 word from Mamma, Anne, or myself, will be 
 enough. But I wish you wouldn't take it, Lizzie, 
 for you will be unhappy ; and when I know you 
 are miserable, I shall blame myself for having 
 been the means of placing you there." 
 
 ^' But I won't be miserable, dear Melusina. 
 I do not expect to find much happiness as a 
 governess, and the salary is a good one for a 
 girl of my age. Besides, it will be a recom- 
 mendation to me hereafter to have lived two or 
 three years in Sir James Tanner's family." 
 
 " Two or three years ! You won't stay above 
 two or three months," said Melusina, discon- 
 tentedly. 
 
 '^Let her try the place, at all events, Melu-
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 165 
 
 sina," said my aunt Diana, decisively; *^the girl 
 has more common sense and judgment than I 
 thought. It will be a recommendation to her 
 hereafter to have been a governess in the family 
 of Sir James Tanner, of White Cross Priory — 
 and she must try and stay one year." 
 
 " If she can," said Melusina, doubtfully, as, 
 rising, she gathered up the skirts of her riding- 
 habit. ^' Well, Lizzie, since both Mrs. Neville 
 and you yourself wish it, I'll make haste home, 
 and write to Lady Tanner at once ; and I 
 heartily hope, for your sake, she may already 
 have provided herself with a governess, for I'm 
 sure you'll be wretched at White Cross." And 
 Melusina swept out of the room with as doleful 
 a look as if she were going to my funeral. 
 
 I followed her to the door, and saw her mount 
 Saracen and ride off. She looked back, and 
 shook her head at me as she cantered away, and 
 I smiled gaily, and kissed my hand to her in 
 return. 
 
 Like most Yorkshire ladies, she rode well, 
 and never appeared to greater advantage than 
 on horseback. They suited each other well — 
 the graceful, high-born maiden, and the graceful 
 Arab steed, I thought, as I stood watching her 
 till she was lost in the distance. I plead guilty 
 to a little — a very little weakness in favour of 
 birth. We know how beauty and sagacity dis- 
 tinguish particular breeds of animals ; and, so
 
 166 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 far as external appearance goes, the highest 
 types of face and form are certainly found among 
 those whose ancestors have exercised no manual 
 toil for centuries. 
 
 Of the mind I say nothing. Our greatest 
 men have sprung from the people. 
 
 As I turned and went in, I contrasted my 
 pale, colourless, laborious life with that of 
 Melusina Beauchamp ; and, true Yorkshire lass 
 as I was, sprung from the race of men of 
 whom the proverb says, that ''if you lay a 
 halter on a Yorkshireman's grave he'll get up 
 and steal a horse " — I envied her Saracen more 
 than all. 
 
 Eemember, I was not yet nineteen. 
 
 In a few days Lady Beauchamp came over to 
 Hilton, accompanied by Lady Tanner, and 1 was 
 presented in form, and duly inspected. 
 
 I cannot exactly say that she treated me like 
 a horse, and examined my teeth to ascertain if 
 my age was correctly stated ; but in other 
 respects she evinced quite as little consideration 
 for my feelings. 
 
 She was a tall, large woman, of colossal pro- 
 portions. Too high-bred to say anything rude 
 to me, it was wonderful how, despite her gentle 
 tones and studied courtesy, she contrived to 
 make me feel the immeasurable distance between 
 herself — wife of Sir James Tanner, Baronet, of 
 White Cross Priory — and me, poor Elizabeth Ne-
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 167 
 
 ville, applying for the situation of her governess. 
 
 The Neville blood mantled in ray cheeks and 
 temples, and careered tumultuously in my veins ; 
 involuntarily I drew myself up, as I thought — 
 "' The Tanners were but serfs when the Beau- 
 champ Nevilles gave laws to England" — but as 
 I raised my eyes I caught a glimpse of my aunt 
 Joan's face, and saw the covert sneer with which 
 she enjoyed my humiliation. 
 
 That glance decided me. I answered Lady 
 Tanner's questions coldly, respectfully, in the 
 business-like style in which they were put. 
 
 I found favour in her sight. 
 
 The venerable appearance of my elder aunts 
 had pleased her also ; '^ and,'* as she afterwards 
 observed to Lady Beauchamp, "it certaiidy was 
 an advantage to have a governess who was of a 
 respectable old family, and had no low connec- 
 tions, provided the young person knew her 
 station, and did not give herself airs." 
 
 The interview concluded by my being engaged 
 conditionally — " if my character suited." Lady 
 Tanner arose, and sailed out of the room, having 
 first taken leave of my aunts, with that mingling 
 of respectful courtesy due to their age,- and pre- 
 tensions as Nevilles and near connexions of 
 Lady Beauchamp, and the condescending supe- 
 riority Lady Tanner, wife of Sir James Tanner, 
 Baronet, must feel towards the relations of her 
 future governess.
 
 168 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 Me she honoured with a dignified bend, which 
 I returned by a courtesy down to the ground, as 
 became a governess. It was beautiful to see 
 how clearly and accurately she defined the boun- 
 dary lines between her situation and ours, the 
 exquisite delicacy of gradation between her 
 manner to Lady Beauchamp, to my three aunts, 
 and to myself. 
 
 Oh ! she was a great artist ! 
 
 So, I afterwards found, were the young ladies 
 her daughters. 
 
 Lady Beauchamp, I am sorry to say, disgraced 
 herself. She was utterly unfit to be Lady 
 Tanner's intimate friend. As she followed her 
 out she looked back, put her finger to the side 
 of her nose, and made a very significant gesture. 
 The only excuse I can make for her is, that she 
 considered us as relations ; and that I have 
 heard of a far greater person, remarkable for 
 dignity in her public character, but who likes a 
 laugh in private, teaching her little daughter the 
 same gesture. 
 
 Lady Tanner, like all little great people, was 
 always on parade, and therefore Lady Beau- 
 champ laughed at her. 
 
 ^^ It will do her ^^'6>6'(i/'^ said my aunt Joan, 
 as the carriage rolled away with the two ladies. 
 *' She will now learn the difference between 
 governessing and a home like this !" 
 
 " You will be kept in order, there is not a
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 169 
 
 doubt, Lizzie ; but I do not know that Lady 
 Tanner's haughtiness will be of much consequence 
 to you. Go where you will, as a governess you 
 must lose caste. Do your duty, and I hope, 
 child, things will turn out well," said my aunt 
 Diana. 
 
 A week's time saw me in a hack chaise, with 
 my two trunks piled on the top, my carpet-bag 
 and bonnet-box beside me on the seat, slowly 
 wending my way towards the town of White 
 Cross. 
 
 It was a dreary day, towards the latter end of 
 autumn; the sky one uniform grey, a fall of small, 
 fine rain or mist, that made no sound as it came 
 down on the grass and leaves, but would speedily 
 wet a traveller to the skin — the kind of rainy 
 fog peculiar to the sea-coast, on which White 
 Cross is situated. I pulled up the chaise-window, 
 and asked if my luggage was well covered up. 
 
 '' All right, miss." 
 
 Then I took up the sash, and wiped the 
 moisture off the glass, and looked out. The day 
 was dreary, the country was dreary. I have 
 heard of a Londoner, who, on coming to White 
 Cross, said, ^' I suppose this is where God 
 Almighty left off making the world!" Just 
 so it struck me : grim, dreary, desolate, and un- 
 finished. 
 
 Judge : a long, long straight road ; on either 
 side of it swampy fields, divided from the high-
 
 170 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 way, and from one another, by deep wide 
 ditches, instead of fences, filled with black fetid 
 water, covered with a foul creen scum, where 
 not overgrown by coarse rank Hags and reed- 
 grass. Windmills enough to have furnished Don 
 Quixote with expeditions for a twelvemonth. 
 
 No trees — or, at most, one or two, shrunk, 
 twisted, stunted, by the keen air. We pass the 
 windmills, still the straight road continues. What 
 a relief! — it winds, narrows — there is a high, 
 uncut hedge ! — there are trees ! A stream of 
 water runs across the road : what matter that 
 we have to drive through it ? — it is a change from 
 the monotony of the way. 
 
 Close to the hedge is a beautiful old church, 
 one might truly call it a miniature cathedral ; I 
 should like to stop and inspect it, but we go on. 
 
 We pass villages, nowise remarkable but for 
 the charm of seeing once more high hedges, gay 
 with changing leaves, and ruby and coral berries. 
 
 It is a relief to my mind to see anything 
 natural and luxuriant, after those miles of straight 
 road and slimy dykes. 
 
 Again the road widens, the country becomes 
 more uniformly level ; but there are trees, and 
 hedges, and luxuriant grass still. We pass a 
 beautiful ivy-mantled church. A few sheep 
 browse on the fine turf in the churchyard. It 
 looks a quiet, holy place : one would like to rest 
 in it when God's time comes.
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 171 
 
 " Is that White Cross ? " 
 
 *^Naw; this be ElmfieUl. Yon's t' parson's 
 hous. White Cross be moor nor three miles off." 
 
 We pass through Elmiield, and another vil- 
 hige, both plain, neat, substantial, and unpictu- 
 resque. The road widens, the trees dwarf, the 
 air feels more chill. I wrap my travelling-cloak 
 more closely around me. 
 
 A long, Avide lake ; a young, not over-thriving 
 phintation girdles the end nearest to me, which 
 is also enchjsed bv a dense belt of reeds. The 
 shores of the lake are Hat and low ; there is no 
 beauty in the scene. 
 
 On the left-hand side of the road the fields 
 rise a little higher than those close to the lake. 
 At their foot stand two tumble-down thatched 
 cottages, half-covered with ivy and honeysuckle, 
 that is all there is of the picturesque in White 
 Cross. 
 
 Through the little sea-cobbls-paved town, 
 where there is no life, no bustle ; past some 
 six or seven little shops, all of which sell pre- 
 cisely the same articles — and, consequently, none 
 of which earn a living — namely, a few groceries, 
 red herrings, and tallow -can dies on the right- 
 hand side, and a few hideous, dear prints, coarse 
 calicoes, hanks of yarn, and faded, mildewed 
 ribbons, which no one cares to buy, on the other. 
 
 Past the battered stone cross, standing on a 
 square stone platform of six or seven steps, from
 
 172 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 whence the town derives its name, and the old 
 grey church. 
 
 Let us pause to look at that. Once — be- 
 fore Harry the Eighth despoiled the adjoining 
 monastery — of which no vestiges remain, save 
 some slight inequalities in the field behind, which 
 mark its site — and took away its revenues, so 
 that it fell into neglect and bad repair — before 
 Cromwell's troopers stabled their horses in the 
 sacred edifice, broke all the painted glass out of 
 the fine window which fills up the whole end of 
 the chancel, carved the shape of their shoes and 
 the initials of their names upon the pillars and 
 monuments, and otherwise defaced it — and be- 
 fore a still greater power, namely, a terrible 
 gale, blew down the beautiful spire, which used to 
 be a sea mark for miles along that coast — it must 
 have been a majestic building ; as it is, with its 
 square grey tower, built of unhewn sea-cobble, 
 its long aisles and clere-stories, it is a fine old 
 church still. 
 
 It stands on a little eminence, in a churchyard 
 covered with mossy upright tombstones, which 
 mark the resting-place of ^' Ralph Foster, Gen- 
 tleman, Butcher of this Parish," and *' Joseph 
 Simpson, Gentleman, Farmer of White Cross,'^ 
 and other great men of the little town. 
 
 A dreary churchyard ! — almost as dreary as 
 that in Tottenham Court Iload — where the fat, 
 black earth refuses to grow anything but patches
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 173 
 
 of coarse grass and nettles — where the graves rise 
 up bhick and hideous among the crooked tumble- 
 down tombstones, instead of being covered with 
 green sod ; a churchyard whose aspect of utter 
 neglect and desolation makes even the grave 
 seem as wretched a retreat as the ruinous hovels 
 that wall in one side of it, and which are te- 
 nanted by the pariahs of White Cross. Nothing 
 holy, nothing solemn, nothing soothing about it. 
 It suggests no feeling of repose. Covered at the 
 end where the hovels stand, with shards of 
 broken crockery, loose straws off the thatch, 
 sticks and rubbish ; with its heaped-up graves, 
 where the black unctuous soil shows grimly 
 from under patches of scanty grass, nettles, and 
 thistles, it rather resembles " a potter's field, 
 purchased to bury strangers in," than a Christian 
 '' God's-acre." 
 
 We turned up a narrow street, passed another 
 stone cross — a memorial of the old Eoman Ca- 
 tholic times — and drove through a long narrow 
 lane, leaving the lake behind. The hedges were 
 all bent and turned to the west, as if, like me, 
 they shivered and shrank from the cold, search- 
 ing sea-breeze. The few stunted trees along 
 them resembled so many bent elbows, from the 
 same cause. Thirty years before, the country 
 for miles round White Cross was a bleak waste 
 moor ; now it was enclosed, but the wind careered 
 dismally over its flat bleak level, sheltered by
 
 174 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 no plantations, broken by no hills. On the right 
 there was always a fresh breeze from the lake ; 
 on the left, from their homes in ice-bound Russian 
 deserts, came the cold sea-blasts. 
 
 JEolus kept his court there. How in winter 
 the winds roared, and whistled, and shrieked ! — 
 eddied round the old gray church, and made the 
 parson's chimney-pots rock as if they would fall ; 
 tore the slates off his roof — caught hold of the 
 young trees in his garden, and whirled them 
 round and round in a circle, till they stood in a 
 deep water-hole, quickly filled by the heavy driv- 
 ing rain ! How they howled in the chimneys of 
 the old hall, and rushed along the streets and 
 wynds, with a sobbing, mournful wail, and beat 
 furiously as if for entrance against the crazy 
 doors and lattices. Tradition said that they once 
 unroofed a wretched hovel, and blew a newly- 
 confined woman and her babe, bed and all, into 
 the street. But that was before my time, when 
 they only blew in the chancel window one Sep- 
 tember night ; broke to pieces three gallant ves- 
 sels, whose crews all went down, and strewed the 
 beach and the adjacent fields with chips of wood 
 no bigger than my hand — all that was left of 
 their huge timbers. 
 
 The hedges ceased. Our way lay through 
 open fields, across v/hich swept the howling
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 175 
 
 blast. The sea-roke wrapped tlie landscape in a 
 dark, wet, grey veil ; water dripped from the 
 tips of the hedges and the spare, twisted, gnarled 
 bouirhs of the bent elbow-like trees. Afar was 
 heard the mournful booming of the sea. Not a 
 thing was in sight but a miserable, half-starved, 
 solitary jackass, who was trying to crop a scanty 
 meal from the thistles in the open dykes that 
 divided the fields. All looked so dark, so dreary, 
 so desolate, I leant my head upon my hands and 
 wept. 
 
 I wept long and violently, for my nature is 
 impressible, and singularly influenced by scenery. 
 1 felt sure I should be miserable in this hideous, 
 bare, gray swamp. The cold chilled my very 
 blood ; the damp seemed to eat into my bones. 
 I felt oppressed, suffocated. I could not breathe 
 that thick roky air. 
 
 In general, the monks have shown exquisite 
 feeling for beauty in the selection of sites for 
 their monasteries. It must have been as a pe- 
 nance that they fixed on White Cross, as an utter 
 banishment from everything lovely, or loveable, 
 even in nature. 
 
 The chaise stopped, and the driver got down 
 to open a gate. Then I dried my eyes, for I 
 concluded we were near the Priory. We drove 
 through some plantations I could not see for the 
 fog, and did not care to see ; and finally stopped 
 before a long pile of white buildings.
 
 176 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 The door was opened ; a servant offered his 
 arm for me to alight ; my luggage was lifted 
 down from the chaise, and carried into the hall ; 
 I settled with the driver and followed it — I was 
 in White Cross Priory. 
 
 *' I am Miss Neville/' I said. 
 
 The butler bowed with the supercilious air 
 with which gentlemen of his class look upon us 
 poor governesses, whose hard fate it is to be con- 
 temned by both master and man, mistress and 
 maid. " Tonimus will take you to the school- 
 room, ma'am. Lady Tanner 'as driven out 
 this morning, and is not come 'ome.'^ 
 
 The minor satellite obeyed, marshalling the 
 way through long passages and various baize 
 doors — needed, God knows, in that dreadful cli- 
 mate. I followed, a mist before my eyes, my 
 heart beating fast. Seeing nothing and nobody, 
 in my agitation, I stumbled into the room whose 
 door Thomas flung open, with, 
 
 ^^ Please, Miss Lucilla, here's the new gover- 
 ness." 
 
 A young lady came forward, and said in a 
 sweet, well-toned voice, 
 
 **I am glad to see you. Miss Neville. Sit 
 down by the fire, and get warm. You have 
 had a disagreeable journey, I fear, this damp, 
 foggy day." 
 
 Thomas placed a chair, and I sat down. 
 When my eyes had become accustomed to the
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 177 
 
 glare of light, which dazzled me after coming 
 out of the fog, I saw that Miss Lucilla was a 
 tall, elegant girl of about tvvo-and-twenty, with 
 small delicate features, broad black arched eye- 
 brows, golden-coloured hair, and an exquisite 
 complexion. Her manners were as polite and 
 as freezing as Lady Tanner's ; smooth as an 
 icicle, and as cold. She introduced me to her 
 younger sisters, and to Madame St. Croix, my 
 coadjutrix, whom she desired to ring for tea, as 
 that would warm and refresh me better than 
 anything else, and left the room. 
 
 Shortly afterwards, her maid, Mdlle. Laure, 
 came in, and said, '^Miss Lucilla thought I 
 should like to see my room, and take oif my 
 things, while tea was preparing ; " and again, 
 but in an opposite ^lirection, I traversed long 
 passages and corridors. When I reached my 
 own apartment the soubrette offered to assist 
 me in undressing; I declined her services with 
 thanks. I felt tired, jaded, dispirited, and I 
 was glad to be alone. 
 
 Wearily, mechanically, I took off" my various 
 wraps : they were quite damp, though I had 
 travelled with the chaise window up — so pene- 
 trating was the sea-roke — and I hung them on 
 chairs to dry. I washed my hands and face, 
 and then looked at myself in the glass ; my face 
 was pale, my hair out of curl from the fog. I 
 braided it neatly, took a fresh untumbled dress 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 178 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 from my trunk, together with a clean collar, 
 and put them on. 
 
 I was aware of the importance of first im- 
 pressions. When my toilette was complete, I 
 looked at myself again. There was no heaute 
 du diahle^ nothing attractive about me that 
 night at least. I looked the humble, dispirited, 
 subdued governess completely. 
 
 Perhaps it was as well. 
 
 This important affair ovei', I sat down by the 
 fire to think — perhaps I should rather say to 
 feel. The long dreary drive through so many 
 miles of bleak, barren, uninteresting scenery — 
 the chilliness of the thick dense fog, that veiled 
 everything towards the close of my journey — 
 seemed to me typical of the future. I felt lost 
 in that wide wilderness of a house, through 
 which I dared not attempt to find my way 
 again to the school-room. I felt lost among all 
 these strangers, not one of whom, I was certain, 
 would ever be less of a stranger to me than 
 now. I felt that in that house I should — as 
 Melusina had forewarned me — be inevitably miser- 
 able. Yet I would not let the sorrow at my 
 heart have way. I told myself that life was 
 but a journey ; a long up-hill journey to most. 
 Eesolutely, I repelled every cowardly voice 
 which whispered to my inner soul, " If you do 
 not like the place, you need not stay here." I 
 determined that I would stay. Like it, or dis-
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 179 
 
 like it, I would remain two or three years, if I 
 could succeed in giving satisfaction to my em- 
 ployers. My aunt Joan should not taunt me 
 with being like a bad shilling again. Mean- 
 while, I resolved to force myself to assume a 
 cheerfulness I did not feel, and to acknowledge 
 my depression to no one. 
 
 I was not left long to myself. The door 
 opened, and Lady Tanner sailed in, followed by 
 two daughters, whom she introduced to me as 
 Miss Tanner and Miss Matilda Tanner. 
 
 They each levelled an eye-glass at the proud, 
 shy, sensitive governess ; and surveyed me with 
 grave deliberation, made some common-place 
 inquiries concerning my journey — and, with 
 their lady mother, left the room. 
 
 I remained meditating on great people and 
 little people, and wondering how the Tanners 
 would feel when they got to heaven ; where, 
 according to the Bible, there must be a great 
 deal of low society, since Lazarus lies in Al ra- 
 ham^s bosom ; and thinking how strange it was 
 that people, professing to make it the endeavour 
 of their lives to imitate Christ and his Apostles, 
 should yet value themselves so much on pos- 
 sessing a little more dross than others. 
 
 Between myself and the Tanners there was 
 this one difference — wealth ; and yet they spoke 
 to me, and looked at me, as if I was scarcely of 
 the same species. By and bye I heard a tap at 
 
 N 2
 
 180 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 the door ; I rose and opened it. A fair-haired 
 little girl came in, and said, 
 
 ''Please, Miss Neville, Madame St. Croix 
 desired me to fetch you to tea in the school- 
 room." 
 
 The evening wore away in dulness and dreari- 
 ness. The young ladies prepared thei: tasks 
 for the following day, and practised. Between 
 Madame St. Croix and myself the conversation 
 consisted of a few unconnected sentences, re- 
 ferring chiefly to the weather. 
 
 At last the clock on the chimney-piece chimed 
 the half-hour. 
 
 *' Mesdemoiselles remettez tout cela, a sa place, 
 il est huit heures et demi. Mademoiselle Neville 
 va lire les prieres du soir.'^ 
 
 They obeyed. One among them sought the 
 book of prayers, opened it, and brought it to 
 me. We knelt down : and with as composed 
 and steady a voice as I could command I read 
 the short service. 
 
 When we all arose the young ladies came 
 and stood a few minutes round the fire. One 
 of them observed, she must rise half an hour 
 earlier than usual the next morning, as she had 
 not mastered her Italian lesson ; another hoped 
 it would be fine, that I might see the gardens. 
 They talked like little women ; there was no- 
 thing fresh, natural, or child-like about any of 
 them. They were all coined in the same mint,
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 181 
 
 and stamped with the same die, as Lady Tanner 
 and her elder daughters. I do not suppose 
 they ever could have been naughty — it would 
 have been unbecoming the Miss Tanners. 
 
 The clock struck nine. They each of them 
 took up their bed candlesticks, lit the candles, 
 touched Madame St. Croix's hand and mine, 
 uttered, " Bon soir, Madame — bon soir, Made- 
 moiselle Neville," turned at the door, made a 
 formal reverence, and departed to bed. 
 
 *^ Dieu merci ! Yoila qui est fini pour au- 
 jourdhui ! " said Madame, shrugging her shoul- 
 ders in that indescribable manner which implies 
 so much, and which none but foreigners can 
 achieve. I made no reply. 
 
 " Eh, bien ! Mademoiselle Neville, vous ne 
 dites mot ? Comment trouver vous ce Vite-cross 
 Priory ? " 
 
 " Mais, madame, je ne viens que d'arriver, 
 je ne puis pas en juger." 
 
 ^^ Aussi bien que si vous y aviez demeuree 
 cent ans. C'est toujours le meme. Mon Dieu ! 
 quel triste pays que I'Angleterre ; et que vous 
 etes tristes, vous autres Anglaises ! "
 
 182 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 The apartments of the younger children and 
 their teachers were, I found, in one wing of the 
 house, and entirely separated from those occu- 
 pied by the other members of the family, and 
 by their guests. 
 
 That vast pile of buildings, called White 
 Cross Priory, contained as it were several king- 
 doms, the boundaries of which were most strictly 
 defined, and which no one ventured to pass 
 without proper warrant for so doing. Guests 
 came and went, and Madame St. Croix, myself, 
 and our pupils never saw their faces, or heard 
 their names. We knew as little what went on 
 in the other three parts of the house, as if they 
 had been the other three quarters of the world, 
 and separated from us by seas and oceans. 
 
 Our days moved on with the regularity and 
 monotony of clock-work. There was nothing to 
 break the sameness of routine, or to invigorate 
 the spirits when harassed and jaded by teaching. 
 The strain upon the nerves was never relaxed j
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 183 
 
 the tension of the mind never ceased — it was a 
 mental tread-mill. 
 
 Argus eyes watched that the prescribed series 
 of lessons were regularly gone through — there 
 was no possibility of rendering them more inte- 
 resting to the pupil, and less wearisome to the 
 teacher, by introducing the slightest variation. 
 Everything was done by rule, and every hour of 
 the day was filled up. One or other of the Miss 
 Tanners generally sat with us ; one of them, or 
 their lady mother, invariably examined and criti- 
 cised the day's performances. It was a weary 
 life! 
 
 Perhaps I ought not to have complained ; 
 perhaps I ought to have been thankfid for a 
 shelter from the weather, for food, for a 
 moderate salary, and no positive ill-treatment ; 
 and yet such is my faultiness of disposition that 
 I was not. 
 
 I hated my monotonous, mechanical life — my 
 dreary, isolated existence. My human heart 
 cried out for something to love. 
 
 What would I not have given for some variety, 
 for Georgiana Stanley's sullenest look; for Julia 
 and Emma's little funny perverse ways ; for any- 
 thing that was not stereotyped and conventional ! 
 Anything free, lively, or natural ; any one single 
 being to whom I could attach myself. My pupils 
 were gentle, obedient, pains-taking ; but I could 
 not presume to love them. They were civil to
 
 184 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 me as they were to their maid ; but they never, 
 for an instant, forgot the difference between Sir 
 James Tanner's daughters and their hired go- 
 verness. 
 
 We prayed a great deal at White Cross Priory. 
 First of all, we assembled in the school-room, at 
 six o'clock in summer, half-past seven in winter — 
 never later — when we had prayers. Then the 
 young ladies looked over their lessons, one of 
 the number sitting down to practise the harp or 
 piano. At eight breakfast was served. After 
 that meal was over, we read the psalms and 
 lessons for the day. At half-past nine Sir James 
 Tanner read prayers to his family, when we were 
 expected to attend. 
 
 He was a tall, handsome man, and looked 
 very dignified and imposing as he stood at the 
 head of his study-table, and cast a majestic 
 glance on each of us as we filed in one after the 
 other, and took our places, while Lady Tanner 
 and her grown-up daughters rustled into the 
 room in their elegant morning dresses, looking 
 as if they thought the earth honoured by their 
 tread ; but calling up an expression of humility 
 into their faces, which came and went with their 
 bibles. 
 
 We knelt, and with a grave, sonorous voice, 
 and with great unction of manner, Sir James 
 Tanner acknowledged that ** we were all mi-
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 185 
 
 serable sinners" in God's sight, prayed that we 
 ^' might have humble, contrite hearts," and lastly, 
 *^that we miglit not set our atfections on earthly 
 things, but be kept from all the pomps and vani- 
 ties of this wicked world ; from false pride and 
 vain glory ; and so nse things temporal that we 
 might inherit life eternal." 
 
 After prayers we arose, the younger Miss 
 Tanners saluted their parents and elder sisters, 
 and kind and loving greetings passed between 
 them — for among themselves they were a most 
 affectionate family ; but Madame St. Croix and 
 I stood by as lacqueys waiting at a richly-spread 
 table ; we might hunger and thirst — not a crumb 
 would fall to our share. 
 
 The morning after my arrival at White Cross 
 I had been formally presented to the master of 
 the house, who, on that occasion, surveyed me 
 with much the same air with which Nelson, on 
 the top of his pillar, looks down on the lamp- 
 posts in Trafalgar Square ; bent two of the 
 vertebrge of his neck, and said, in a tone of 
 superiority, '' Good morning, Miss Neville." 
 
 More words than those four he never addressed 
 either to Madame St. Croix or myself during the 
 three years that I remained at White Cross. It 
 was, in fact, a condescension for him to say so 
 much even to governesses. Usually he simply 
 noticed our presence by a stately bend, which 
 we returned by a deep curtsey, as we rose from
 
 186 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 our knees, and turned to retire to our part of 
 the house. 
 
 When only the family party or very dear 
 friends were staying at the Priory, there was 
 usuall}'^ some religious reading in the drawing- 
 room after breakfast was over, and the gentle- 
 men had dispersed to amuse themselves on the 
 magistrates' bench, in hunting, shooting, fishing, 
 planting, and other recreations appertaining to 
 country gentlemen of large estate ; and these 
 readings the governesses and younger children 
 had ^' the privilege," as they called it, of attend- 
 ing. Now and then — on the rare holidays per- 
 mitted, and when it was quite certain no gentle- 
 man would return to luncheon — Lady Tanner 
 would graciously permit us to remain until that 
 meal was annou,nced, when we retired to our 
 dinner in the school-room. 
 
 The conversation on such occasions was 
 studiously " of an improving nature, such as 
 would benefit both teachers and children," as 
 Miss Agatha, who was two years younger than 
 myself, one day condescendingly remarked to 
 me. Nevertheless, I was not improved by it, as 
 I decidedly ought to have been. 
 
 Of course, neither Madame St. Croix nor my- 
 self presumed to converse with the family. We 
 meekly answered any question that might be 
 addressed to us ; further than that we took no 
 part, but we listened. How strange it seemed
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 187 
 
 to bear the remarks that followed the reading, 
 and sprung from it — to hear self-denial, brotherly- 
 love, and humility so beautifully inculcated, and 
 to contrast the precepts with the practice, the 
 humble words with the lofty spirit. The whole 
 Tanner family professed to set no value *' on the 
 riches which moth and rust could corrupt " — to 
 esteem a pure and upright heart more worthy 
 than princely rank — to look upon themselves 
 as wayfarers on a journey, to whom it was of 
 little consequence ^'in what soi't of apparel they 
 were clad, or what sort of entertainment they 
 met on the way," provided they arrived safely at 
 the Eternal City ; and yet they treated Madame 
 St. Croix and myself — both gentlewomen by 
 birth, and as well educated as themselves, or we 
 could not have held the positions we did — as 
 beings utterly unfit to associate with them, 
 simply because we used the talents God had 
 given us to earn our own bread, instead of de- 
 pending upon rich relations. Even Madame St. 
 Croix's filial devotion in working to maintain a 
 widowed mother, could not redeem her in their 
 eyes — praiseworthy, as they often called it — from 
 the deep degradation of being a governess ; 
 while, had anyone left her a large fortune, she 
 would have become their equal immediately. 
 
 Involuntarily, as such thoughts passed through 
 my mind, my glance would rest on all the luxu-
 
 188 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 riant elegance of that magnificent room — on 
 marble consoles supported by golden feet, and 
 covered with precious articles of z^zV^z/ — on costly 
 mirrors in richly-ornamented frames, and silken- 
 covered chairs and couches. The soft carpet on 
 which I pressed my foot yielded to the tread, 
 like a bed of moss ; the very air cauie into 
 the room loaded with fragrance from the flowers of 
 a large conservatory, into which it opened. 
 
 I say, I gazed on all these evidences of wealth, 
 not wrong in themselves, had they been valued 
 as what they were — mere external advantages, 
 conferring no true superiority — 1 mused on their 
 owner's pride of caste and station, and I asked 
 myself this question : 
 
 If Jesus, the carpenter's son, came once more 
 upon earth, would these great people notice so 
 low a person? 
 
 I trow not.
 
 189 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Anne and Melusina Beauchamp were frequent 
 visitors at White Cross. 
 
 Of course I never knew what guests were ex- 
 pected, or who came and went ; and the first 
 intimation I fjenerally had of their advent was 
 by their ^' making a raid," as Mehisina phrased 
 it, into that domain of dulness, the school-room, 
 and astonishing the minds of the younger Miss 
 Tanners by their cordial and affectionate manner 
 to a governess. 
 
 They seldom made such an incursion above 
 once during their visit, and they must have been 
 great favourites with Lady Tanner to be allowed 
 in any way to infringe on the strict discipline of 
 the house. Their blithe, bonny faces were ** a 
 sight for sair een ; " they brought, as it were, a 
 waft of the fresh, outer air of another merrier 
 world than mine into the dull room ; it was 
 pleasant and inspiriting only to have their joyous, 
 natural laugh. It awakened my heart — which 
 was petrifying under the cold water of Tanner
 
 190 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 reserve continually dropping on it, as effectually 
 as any bird's-nest or wig placed under the drop- 
 ping well at Knaresborough — once more to life 
 and w^armth, to receive those cordial shakes of 
 the hand, to feel myself treated as an equal and 
 a gentlewoman, if but for a few moments. 
 
 Their visits resembled brief glimpses of sun- 
 shine darting into a gloomy prison, casting a 
 transient glow and warmth on the bare walls 
 and stone floors ; and making it feel more chilly, 
 damp, and tomb-like when withdrawn. 
 
 I have not described Anne and Melusina — a 
 better hand than mine should have painted their 
 portraits. Anne was the most graceful woman 
 I ever saw. There was something sweet, 
 natural, and tender in her look and manners, 
 that won all hearts. I question whether she 
 could have done or said a rude or unkind thing. 
 I believe the great secret of her fascination lay 
 in this constant consideration for the feelings of 
 others, even more than in her rare beauty. Her 
 way of speaking to a governess, a servant, or an 
 old beggar woman, was as courteous and genial 
 as that in which she addressed a duchess. There 
 was no pride, no assumption about her, but a 
 gentle, gracious dignity, w^hich formed a far 
 more effectual barrier against familiarity or im- 
 pertinence than all the supercilious, icy polite- 
 ness of the Tanners. 
 
 Her style of beauty harmonized with the
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 191 
 
 character of the lovely soul It enshrined. Her 
 tall, flexible figure had the elegance and supple- 
 ness of the willow — every movement was natural 
 and full of grace. She looked elegant even 
 when — as I have often seen her do in a playful 
 humour — she laid her hands on a high rail fence, 
 and vaulted over it. Her head was small, well- 
 formed, and beautifully set on the slender 
 neck and well-shaped shoulders ; her fore- 
 head low, broad, and rather scpiare ; her long 
 luxuriant tresses drooped on either side her 
 face, half-way down to the slender waist, and 
 were loosely knotted up in a statuesque w^ay 
 behind. Her eyebrows were nearly straight, 
 and remarkably flexible, giving play and ex- 
 pression to the other features ; her eyes were 
 long-cut, soft, and sleepy, their colour a blue 
 grey ; her mouth was nearly straight, but well 
 formed, and her smile was one of the pleasantest 
 1 ever saw ; her complexion fair and delicate, 
 but healthy ; and whatever dress she wore 
 seemed to be precisely that which was best 
 adapted to set off her sweet face and figure. 
 Her voice, low and silvery sweet, had a peculiar 
 affectionate earnestness in its tone — un ton 
 caressant, the French call it ; we have no term 
 for this rare charm. If you had heard it in the 
 dark, you would have expected, when light re- 
 vealed the countenance of the speaker, to see 
 such a woman as Anne Beauchamp.
 
 192 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 How poor a portrait of her who was the 
 acknowledged belle of the whole county ! 
 
 Melasina was handsome, not beautiful. Her 
 figure was more ample and showy than Anne's, 
 her whole demeanour challenged more observation. 
 There was a dash of originality about her, that 
 was infinitely charming — a strange mixture of 
 exquisite kindness of heart, with a rollicking, ^' I 
 don't care" sort of character, that bewitched one 
 in spite of oneself. She often did and said 
 strange, out-of-the-way things, that in other 
 women would have seemed vulgar ; but a certain 
 air of lofty high breeding prevented her from 
 ever being so. Her features were not so regular 
 as Anne's ; she had not the same peculiarly 
 graceful turn of the head and neck; her fore- 
 head was higher and rounder ; her luxuriant 
 hair a lighter brown ; her large beautiful eyes a 
 very light hazel — " Les yeulx vairs, vifs, et 
 pourtant si doulx" of Clotilde de Surville. She 
 was what the men called her — ''a splendid 
 creature." 
 
 Of these two sisters, both of whom showed 
 me equal kindness, I never could settle with 
 myself which I liked and loved the most. 
 
 Neither Anne nor Melusina patronized mis- 
 sionary baskets, and worked very unwillingly 
 for the baza irs which the Tanners set agoing in 
 aid of funds for building churches or schools. 
 They did not like, any more than King David,
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 193 
 
 " to give to the Lord of that which had cost 
 them nothing," or to lessen the few modes in 
 which impoverished gentlewomen and crippled 
 invalids could maintain themselves. 
 
 We talk of the progress of society. In some 
 things our forefathers were better than we are — 
 there was in their days less cant and more re- 
 ligion ; less profession of fine feelings, and more 
 real sympathy for those who were reduced to 
 poverty. 
 
 We like to give sixpence, and have the credit 
 of giving a pound ; so we open bazaars and 
 keep a charity-shop. The greater part of our 
 goods we beg from our neighbours. What we 
 make oiirselves are manufactured of remnants of 
 our silk dresses and bonnet ribbons, and pieces 
 from our milliner's and silk mercer's, and cost 
 little beyond our labour, which is of no im- 
 portance to those who have not to earn their 
 living. We sell articles thus fabricated at an 
 enormous price, and, after refunding to ourselves 
 the expenses and costs, give the iwojit of our 
 charity-shop to God. 
 
 I doubt He will prefer the widow's mite. That 
 involved self-denial. 
 
 Our ancestors were no Pharisees ; they did 
 not pretend to any particular righteousness. 
 When they wanted to collect a sum of money 
 for a charitable purpose they gave a ball, which 
 employed vast numbers of people, brought young 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 194 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 persons together, realized a considerable sum of 
 money for whatever institution it was given in 
 aid of, and injured no one; and they did not 
 assume any merit to themselves for dancing at 
 it, or profess that superior sanctity to which 
 bazaar-giving ladies lay claim. 
 
 Formerly, the making fancy articles for Eepo- 
 sitories was a sure support to feeble, delicate 
 women, unable to go out as governesses. Now 
 they starve, or do worse ; but surely God will 
 require an account of those who take not of their 
 own wealth to sacrifice to Him, but take away 
 occupations by which the impoverished gentle- 
 woman, brought up to no trade, can earn bread — 
 and are thus generous at the cost of her starva- 
 tion, misery, and death. 
 
 I speak what I know ; and it is the duty of 
 every bazaar-giving lady to read the eloquent 
 appeal sent to Lady Morgan by one of those suf- 
 ferers, after she had been patroness of a bazaar, 
 and published by her ladyship in her *^ Book of 
 the Boudoir.'' 
 
 Melusina and Anne saw no generosity in what 
 involved no personal sacrifice ; but I have knowa 
 them go to a ball in dresses they had often worn, 
 because they had given some poor distressed 
 creature the money set aside to buy new ones. 
 They never thought this any merit — they did it 
 as a thing of course. The poor wretch was fa- 
 
 WIS^'
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 195 
 
 mishing and they were not rich enough to buy 
 the dress after relieving the misery. When they 
 voluntarily worked for charity, it was to make 
 garments and baby linen for the poor. They 
 talked little about religion, but I have seen Me- 
 lusina weeping with a woman who had just lost 
 her infant ; and Anne return with tearful eyes 
 from the bed of a dying girl, to whom she had 
 been reading the bible. 
 
 There was not the least hypocrisy in the reli- 
 gion of the Tanners. It was deeply felt ; it 
 sustained them in sorrow and adversity, and 
 smoothed the bed of suffering. When Lady 
 D'Arcy, the beautiful and beloved elder daugh- 
 ter, whose brilliant marriage had given them all 
 such joy, died in childbed, the bereaved family 
 bowed their heads, and cried, *' God's will be 
 done : the Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken 
 away, blessed be the name of the Lord." 
 
 When Amelia was seized with a complaint in 
 the knee, for which amputation became necessary, 
 neither she nor her parents murmured that thus, 
 in her youth and beauty, she was cut off from all 
 enjoyment of both. 
 
 It was beautiful and touching to see their re- 
 signation to God's will. It was beautiful to 
 witness the love and unity that reigned among 
 them, from the eldest to the youngest. In the 
 three years I passed at White Cross I never 
 heard a harsh word from one sister to the other 
 
 02
 
 196 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 — I never saw an angry look. The greatest 
 possible harmony prevailed between the parents 
 and their children ; the voice of discord and 
 contention was unheard. 
 
 I have since noticed this to be a common 
 characteristic of rich and noble families, where 
 there are ample means, numerous servants to at- 
 tend to every want or caprice, and none of the 
 continual strains upon the temper, and calls for 
 sacrifice of personal ease and comfort to others, 
 that arise where the means are limited, and the 
 domestic attendants necessarily few. Yet it is 
 pleasant to see family union, whatever be the 
 cause. 
 
 They were anxious to do good, and ^renerous 
 — to those who held their own views. But theirs 
 was not the true Catholic generosity which em- 
 braces all mankind in its liberality. It was re- 
 stricted to those who were what they termed 
 ^' professing Christians." They went much about 
 among the poor, and gave to their distresses with 
 a liberal hand, and conversed far more affably 
 with them than with those who were but a little 
 below themselves. There was no danger that 
 George Buchan the gamekeeper, Jane Binns the 
 laundress, or John the footman, should presume 
 to claim equality with them. The sphere in 
 which such persons moved was separated by 
 boundless space from the orbit in which Sir
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 197 
 
 James Tanner's family revolved. But to the 
 smull squires of the neighbourhood, and clergy- 
 men's families — all as well educated and as po- 
 lished as themselves — and many of them descended 
 from ancestors who ranked as feudal nobles when 
 Tanners were serfs — to these, and to their tutors 
 and governesses ; the distant hauteur they af- 
 fected was, to my thinking, and that of many 
 others, unchristian. 
 
 It is strange, but it is a fact, that in no fami- 
 lies are tutors and governesses so haughtily 
 treated as in those who profess to be very reli- 
 gious. No set of people have less sympathy for 
 others than those who in these days profess to 
 be followers of the meek and compassionate Jesus, 
 whose apostles taught that we should ^' rejoice 
 with those that rejoice, and weep with those who 
 weep." 
 
 Sir James and Lady Tanner sometimes patro- 
 nized the clergyman of White Cross so far as 
 occasionally to invite him and his family to din- 
 ner. But they did not approve of him ; for, 
 though a kindly-disposed man, ever ready to con- 
 tribute his mite tow^ards relieving distress, he was 
 not as active and zealous in carrying out the 
 new-fangled modes of the day, regarding weekly 
 and Sunday schools, as they fancied he ought 
 to be. 
 
 Dr. Jenkins thought that if the working-
 
 198 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 classes were ovei^-educated they would become 
 discontented, and think themselves above per- 
 forming the duties of the station in life in which 
 they were born, without having acquired the 
 knowledge or means which would raise them to a 
 higher one. Thirty years^ experience has proved 
 his fears were well-grounded ; for now the rich 
 are commencing a retrograde movement, and es- 
 tablishing schools in which the children of the 
 poor may be taught what, before the educational 
 mania began, they learnt of their mothers at 
 home : to scrub tables and floors, light a fire, 
 wash and iron their own clothes, and cook, as 
 well as to work neatly — which few of them can 
 do now, though they can work crochet, and 
 embroider under-sleeves for Sunday wear. 
 
 Therefore, the Jenkins family were no flivou- 
 rites with the Tanners, whose souls were devoted 
 to schools, missionary meetings, clothing clubs, 
 and bazaars ; to anything, in short, which enabled 
 them to display their piety and goodness to the 
 world. 
 
 I was engaged, one day, in the school-room, 
 hearing Miss Clarissa Tanner read the history of 
 England, while my fingers were at the same time 
 employed in working a footstool for one of the 
 abominable bazaars, a piece of work I had under- 
 taken very unwillingly, as it compelled me to put 
 out a new gown to make, which I had intended
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 199 
 
 to make myself, and for which I had to pay 
 tvvelve-aud-sixpence, when Miss Agatha entered 
 the apartment. 
 
 "Good morning, Madame St. Croix; good 
 morning, Miss Neville. I am glad to see you 
 all so industrious. And how very kind in you 
 both to be working for our bazaar — so little 
 time as you have ! " 
 
 '* Ah, oui ! Mademoiselle Agatha, nous avons, 
 en elfet, tres pen de temps. Nous ne pouvons 
 vous donner que des moments perdus." 
 
 " We are obliged to you both, madame. You 
 are labouring in a good cause. These schools 
 which we wish to establish will, I hope, be a great 
 benefit to the poor children." 
 
 There was no help fur it. A request from my 
 employers was equivalent to a command. So I 
 put my dresses out to be made. Doubtless, if 
 they thought about it at all, they thought that 
 out of a salary of fifty pounds a year I could 
 atford to spend a sovereign or two in dress- 
 making. So, perhaps, does the reader. 
 
 Consider that in such a house 1 had always to 
 appear nicely dressed ; that I was often obliged 
 to buy new clothes because I had not time to 
 repair what, if repaired, would have lasted some 
 months longer ; that a governess has no immu- 
 nity from the visitations of sickness and disease ; 
 and that out of the thirty years during which
 
 200 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 it is possible she may be able to work, if she has 
 good health, and is so fortunate as never to be 
 long out of a situation, she has to save what will 
 maintain her in her old age. 
 
 I was very anxious to spend nothing I could 
 avoid spending. 
 
 " You certainly do work beautifully, Miss 
 Neville," said Miss Agatha, bending over me, 
 and examining my work through her glass. *' I 
 am so much obliged to you for that pretty stool ; 
 and to Madame St. Croix, too, for her beautiful 
 collar. How exquisitely you French ladies em- 
 broider, madame ; the Miss Beauchamps work 
 beautifully, but they do not equal you. How- 
 ever, I must now go back to my own occupa- 
 tion ; I merely came, by mamma's desire, to say 
 that she will be happy to see you both in the 
 drawing-room this evening ; my sisters will come 
 with you of course. We expect Dr. Jenkins, 
 his wife and daughter, to dinner — mamma would 
 like to find you !n the drawing-room when we 
 come out of the dining-room, Madame St. 
 Croix." 
 
 *^Miladi me fait trop d'honneur. Mademoiselle 
 Neville et moi, nous serous charmees de passer 
 la soiree au salon,'' said Madame St. Croix, with 
 a pleased smile. I answered, *^ I should be very 
 happy." And Miss Agatha, having acquitted 
 herself of her mission, withdrew.
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 201 
 
 The school-room clock gave notice that it 
 wanted a quarter to one o'clock. Lesson-books 
 and exercises were hastily put aside, and our 
 five pupils went upstairs to make themselves 
 ^^tidy" before dinner. 
 
 *' Grand merci de la politesse de miladi," said 
 Madame St. Croix, shrugging her shoulders ; *' la 
 soiree sera amusante, avec le fier Sir Shames, 
 qui n'a jamais rien a dire, et le vieux clerge-man 
 et sa femme et sa fiUe, qui ne diront que des 
 fadeurs. Quand il y a du monde qui nous 
 arauseroient, jamais on ne nous invitent." 
 
 ^' Je m'en soucie pen d'y aller," I replied, 
 " J'aimerais mieux de rester dans la classe. Je 
 ne me plais guere parmis les personnes qui me 
 dedaignent, mais il faut y aller." 
 
 '' Je crois bien," said Madame St. Croix, with 
 a derisive smile. '^ Ma chere, c'est une com- 
 mande. Nous prendrons notre ouvrage, et nous 
 travaillerons comme si c'etoit notre gagne-pain. 
 Malheureusement Ton ne nous paye pas." 
 
 A little after seven Madame St. Croix, the 
 younger Miss Tanners, and myself, entered the 
 drawing-room. How little we can judge of peo- 
 ple's actual condition by outward appearances ! 
 Had any one seen Madame St. Croix and myself, 
 both nicely dressed, and sitting engaged in elegant 
 fancy work, in that splendid drawing-room, with 
 its six windows all thrown open, letting in the
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 delicious perfume from the garden, now in the 
 height of summer beauty, and gorgeous with 
 gay-coloured annuals, and rare and costly exotics, 
 they would hardly have suspected us to be what 
 we were — two poor governesses, there on suf- 
 ferance. 
 
 It was useless to indulge in such reflections, 
 so I pkmted myself at the window, resolved for 
 once to revel in the beauty of the scene. 1 had 
 a passion for flowers, amounting almost to ma- 
 nia : I think I could have been happy even at 
 White Cross — at least in the summer season — 
 if I could have wandered at will in that beautiful 
 garden, renowned throughout the whole county. 
 But that would have been an infringement upon 
 etiquette, and I now looked forward to spending 
 a part of this evening in it as a positive en- 
 joyment. 
 
 Lady Tanner was proud of her garden, and 
 would, I knew, take us all over it. 
 
 The slightest inequality of ground had been 
 carefully taken advantage of, and artificially in- 
 creased, so as to simulate a natural undulation 
 of country — carefully fenced in from the east 
 winds by a dense plantation of Scotch firs, hidden 
 by trees of gayer aspect, judiciously mingled with 
 evergreens, so planted as to appear to open here 
 and there into distant woodland glades — it was 
 the only really picturesque flower-garden I ever 
 saw.
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 203 ' 
 
 The fine turf, mown every third day, was soft 
 and green as velvet. Here and there, among 
 the innumerable gay flower-beds, a few magnifi- 
 cent old oaks — planted, doubtless, by the monks 
 in far back days, when White Cross was, as old 
 records prove, ten miles from the sea, instead of 
 within half a mile of it — cast their broad and 
 pleasant shade. 
 
 The rising ground I spoke of sloped in smooth 
 verdure down to the banks of what appeared to 
 be a clear stream, resplendent with beautiful 
 water-lilies, but was, in fact, an artificial dyke. 
 In winter, choked up with dead weeds and slimy, 
 it was unsightly enough ; but now, with the 
 evening sun shining on it — retlecting the golden 
 and crimson clouds — and the trellis walk, co- 
 vered with every variety of roses, and gaudy- 
 hued creepers that ran along one side — it was 
 exquisitely beautiful ! The songs of the missel 
 thrushes in the copses, the brilliant-coloured 
 tiowers and their almost intoxicating sweetness, 
 the soft emerald turf, the glassy water, and the 
 glorious sky above, made the whole scene like 
 Fairy-land. 
 
 The ladies came in from the dining-room, and 
 I was presented to Mrs. and Miss Jenkins. 
 
 The first was a good sort of everv-day old 
 lady, who thought that what interested her must 
 interest everybody else. She talked of her boys 
 and her husband, and her domestic afiairs, all
 
 204 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 the evening. She told Lady Tanner, in strict 
 confidence, how Jem had caught cold by leaving 
 off his Hannel waistcoat when he went back to 
 chambers in London — but young men would 
 always be young men, and careless ; and how 
 Tom had come in third in the boat-race at Cam- 
 bridge ; and repeated nearly every word of a 
 letter she had received from Ben, who was in 
 Australia ; and finally, how she had lost four 
 dozen of beautiful gooseberry- wine, which she 
 had just made, from inadvertence in desiring the 
 maid to place them upright in the cellar, instead 
 of laying them horizontally — the consequence of 
 which was that the wine effervesced, and broke 
 all the bottles ; and to all Lady Tanner listened 
 with high-bred attention. She had made up her 
 mind to be bored for that day. 
 
 Harriet Jenkins devoted herself to me. She 
 entwined her arm lovingly in mine, and thus we 
 paraded up and down the garden together. 
 
 She was neither handsome nor plain. She had 
 good dark eyes and hair, middling features, and 
 a neat figure. She was dressed in the very 
 height of the reigning mode, and among a cer- 
 tain set would have been deemed fashionable ; 
 here she looked the very reverse. 
 
 She was one of those young ladies who con- 
 sider marriage a woman's profession ; but she had 
 not got on in hers, for on the wrong side of 
 thirty she was single still.
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 205 
 
 She regretted there were no gentlemen dining 
 at the Priory that day, and the general dearth 
 of heaux in that neighboui'hood ; and inquired 
 if any of the Miss Tanners were engaged? 
 
 I replied I did not know, and the conversation 
 languished. Then she favoured me with a long 
 account of some visits she had paid two years 
 before in the neighbourhood of London, where 
 there were plenty of beaux, and of the attention 
 she had then received ; and this lasted until we 
 were summoned in to tea. 
 
 After tea we took up our work, and Harriet, 
 who had taken a seat next me, became eloquent 
 on th it theme. She was knitting a pair of mitts 
 in some new and intricate stitch. I admired 
 them, and she very good-naturedly offered to 
 teach it me. A knowledge of all kinds of fancy- 
 work is essential to a governess, and I gratefully 
 accepted her offer ; but there was not time, for 
 just as I was repeating after her — '^ cast off two 
 and knit one," ^Irs. Jenkins said it was half-past 
 ten, and they must go home ; so we shook hands 
 and parted, and she promised to write the re- 
 ceipt down and send it to me. 
 
 It came a day or two afterwards, accompanied 
 by a kind note, in which she said that, as the 
 stitch was a difficult one, she thought 1 had 
 better come over to the Rectory the following 
 Saturday and drink tea with her, and I could 
 then perfect myself in it.
 
 206 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 I asked Lady Tanner's permission to accept 
 the invitation, and she gave a ready consent. 
 
 I was half angry with myself for the anxiety 
 •with which I looked forward to this visit, the 
 first amusement I had had for nearly a year and 
 a half. I was ashamed when I caught myself 
 looking at the sky, and hoping it would be fine ; 
 for I did not particularly admire any of the 
 Jenkins family : it was only that I seized with 
 avidity anything which promised a change — any 
 relief from the intolerable monotony of my life. 
 
 I paid my visit, and that one led to other 
 visits ; and 1 received so much kindness from 
 Mrs. and Miss Jenkins, that in spite of our 
 having no mutual point of agreement in character 
 or tastes, I contracted a sort of affection for 
 them. 
 
 It must not be supposed I went there often — 
 perhaps altogether six or seven times in a year ; 
 but that was much to the poor recluse governess, 
 without amusement, and far from her former 
 friends. 
 
 If the neighbourhood of White Cross had 
 been beautiful, I might have found in its scenery 
 a compensation for my dull and wearisome life ; 
 but an uglier place I never beheld. It had not 
 even the common charm of most country-places 
 — field-flowers. There were scarcely any cow- 
 slips, no primroses, blue bells, or wood ane-
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 207 
 
 mones, no honeysucliles, no clematis, no purple 
 orchis ; no crimson foxgloves, or mulleins, on the 
 hedge-banks of those long straight lanes: nothing 
 to charm the eye or win the heart. Home 
 affection alone could have rendered the spot 
 endurable to one of my character and pursuits — 
 one to whom the beauties of nature were almost 
 a necessary of existence — who, even as a child, 
 in that dreary town house, had pined for the 
 beautiful — but I had not that. 
 
 Its ugliness, its dreariness, its desolation, 
 added to the wearing, exhausting nature of my 
 daily, never-ceasing occupation of teaching, 
 preyed upon my spirits and affected my health — 
 the more because the sea-air did not suit my 
 constitution. I struggled as much as I could 
 against the depressing effects of all these com- 
 bined, and would not give way and throw up 
 my situation. 
 
 Beyond the plantations and the pleasure- 
 grounds lay the wide open fields I have before 
 described — flat, uninteresting, and dreary, for 
 about half a mile ; then they suddenly, as it 
 were, broke off — and considerably below their 
 surface rolled the sea. 
 
 The only beach was about a quarter of a mile 
 long. On either side of it stretched the unpro- 
 tected fields, from which the sea annually washed 
 away four or five yards every winter. At low 
 water you could ramble for miles upon the sands ;
 
 208 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 but woe to you if you continued walking till the 
 tide came in ; for only here and there were 
 those earthen banks, denominated cliffs by 
 courtesy, passable, and in winter they were one 
 mass of soft clay. 
 
 I once saw a horse ; frightened by the roar of 
 the sea, dash madly up them and sink to his 
 fore-shoulder. His rider threw himself off back- 
 wards ; but it was terrible to see the poor 
 beast's agony — and yet, with that strange fas- 
 cination which the horrible exerts over us, I felt 
 spell-bound to the spot, and could not turn away 
 my eyes until I saw the end. 
 
 His head was thrown back ; his dilated eye ■ 
 balls seemed ready to start from their sockets, 
 his nostrils quivered, every muscle in his neck 
 and chest stood out distinct and clear, like 
 knotted cords, with the agony of his fear. He 
 was quiet enough at first ; and I stood and 
 watched his master and two men dig him out. 
 
 When they had cleared him halfway to the 
 fetlock, his struggles became so violent that they 
 were forced to desist and leave him to himself. 
 He gave two terrible plunges, awful to witness ; 
 with the third he wrenched himself free, and 
 galloped furiously down to the sea. 
 
 There his master caught him, and coaxed him 
 into the shallow water. It took the other two 
 men near an hour to scrape the mud off him 
 with their knives, and wash him partly clean.
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 201^ 
 
 When it was all over, as no harm happened 
 to man or horse, I was glad once to have 
 seen such a si<zht. It enabled me to under- 
 stand the truthfulness and beauty of what I 
 had before thought unnatural : the horse in 
 the celebrated fresco of Curtius taking the 
 leap. 
 
 There are shifting quicksands along the whole 
 line of this coast, and every now and then ter- 
 rible accidents happen. About thirty years ago 
 a lady was walking on the sands, accompanied 
 by her only son and a pet dog. In some of its 
 gambols the little creature ran into one of these 
 treacherous spots. The young man, seeing his 
 favourite struggling and sinking, rushed to save 
 it, and both were swallowed up before the 
 mother's eyes. 
 
 At certain periods, too, when the sea recedes 
 very far, the remains of a submarine forest are 
 visible at low water. Occasionally it continues 
 exposed for some days. At first sight it looks 
 like huge masses of very stiff, black clay. 
 When you examine it more closely you can 
 trace as it were the form and outline of large 
 trees, and it then strikes you that a primeval 
 forest has been prostrated by some convulsion 
 of nature, and mouldered into these beds of 
 black clay. If you break a bit off, ten to one 
 you will find it partly rotten wood, partly clay, 
 sprinkled over with very minute particles of 
 
 VOL. I. p
 
 210 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 what looks like powder-blue, and which I used 
 to say was, doubtless, the remains of Eve's blue- 
 bag. 
 
 It is dangerous to walk upon when it first 
 appears, but after exposure to the sun has 
 hardened the surface it can be traversed with 
 safety. 
 
 Curious relics of the pre-Adamite world, tusks of 
 elephants, petrified nautili, and wood are found in 
 it. I have seen a pair of horns, black and polished 
 as ebony, belonging to an elk of some long extinct 
 species, that were dug up from it by a sailor, 
 who struck his foot against one of the tips as he 
 was walking along ; and have myself pulled out 
 ribs and vertebras, belonging, perhaps, to that 
 very elk. 
 
 The best time to seek for such relics is when 
 a recurrence of stormy weather has washed away 
 the upper crust of earth and clay, and laid more 
 of the decomposing forest bare. 
 
 But however interesting to the scientific or 
 geological student, to a mere lover of the pic- 
 turesque these long, uncouth beds of decaying 
 vegetable matter only added to the ugliness of 
 the scene. I hated the place. 
 
 To me there was something oppressive and 
 melancholy in that wide illimitable waste of 
 waters, only broken by the long, low swell of 
 the coming-in or retreating tide, and iu the 
 hoarse, ceaseless dash of the waves upon the
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 211 
 
 sand. There it stretched, far as eye could see, 
 bounded only by the horizon — a wide trackless 
 expanse, whose solitude and dreariness were 
 rarely broken even by a sail in the offing, for 
 all vessels knew and avoided that dangerous 
 shore. 
 
 I used to walk on the sands with Madame 
 St. Croix and my pupils, and gaze on its dreary 
 desolation, and pine, with a longing no words 
 can describe, for Hooton cliff, covered with copse 
 wood, and carpeted with wood-anemones, and 
 the beautiful glimpses of distant landscape be- 
 tween its glades — for the deep lane, whose high 
 banks were wreathed with hedge-ivy, and 
 starred with sweet white violets— for the mossy 
 paths that led to the fountain, overhung by 
 alders, and honeysuckle, and blackthorn — for 
 the beds of bluebells that blossomed beneath 
 the trees on either side, the trickling rill of pure 
 water that bubbled from it, where I had so 
 often drunk and laved my face — for the green 
 meadows below the cliff, and the bank of purple 
 orchises, that gleamed crimson-bright in the 
 sunshine — for the little village and its grey, 
 square church-tower, that looked so home-like, 
 so peaceful, from those fields ! 
 
 I looked upon that boundless muddy ocean, 
 but I saw it not, my mind was in the old home, 
 listening to the rooks in the park, gathering 
 white violets in farmer Jenkinson's fields, or 
 
 p2
 
 212 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 gazing with deep delight on the beautiful views 
 that presented themselves, turn which way one 
 would. 
 
 At night I could not sleep — that melancholy 
 murmur of the sea sounded for ever in my ears. 
 It brought back to my mind continually where 
 I was, and why I was there ; I could not even 
 forget myself in dreams. 
 
 A sort of nostalgia seized on me, like that 
 which makes the Switzer pine for his mountain 
 home. The second winter of my stay at White 
 Cross I became seriously ill. 
 
 As usual with me, I sought a vent for my 
 feelings in verse. 
 
 THE CRY OF THE BROKEN-HEARTED. 
 
 Written in Spring 18 — . 
 
 Earth, with thy wide wild heaths, and meadows golden, 
 With the rich promise of the long-wish'd Spring ; 
 
 Thy copses where the beech-trees are unfolding 
 
 Their silken leaves, from the brown sheath, ye bring — 
 
 With all around, the gay hues of spring flowers ; 
 
 The fanning of spring gales upon thy brow ; 
 Sights, feelings, sounds — the memory of past houi's — 
 
 And childhood's happy time, seems present now. 
 
 Yes ! Spring comes back each year, and copse and meadow 
 Glow with new-opened flowers as they did then ; 
 
 Earth seems as then, all bright, without a shadow ; 
 But love once lost, no spring brings back again. 
 
 Here are bright skies, sweet flowers ; but the hopes, 
 That made earth seem so glorious in my prime, 
 
 Have sunk like daylight behind mountain slopes ; 
 And I am left, life's weary waste to climb.
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 213 
 
 Life's dreary waste ! O God, why hast thou given 
 All these warm feelings, hopes, desires, in vain ? 
 
 Why did I ever dream of bliss and Heaven ? 
 Only to wake to wretchedness and pain ! 
 
 Why hast thou made the loving heart, and taken 
 
 From it the object of its tender love ? 
 Why do men roam the earth, alone, forsaken — 
 
 Dark thoughts within — darkening thy sky above ? 
 
 The beauty of the earth is not for them ; 
 
 The harmony of wind-swept woods and waves ; 
 Nor the birds' song — nor glittering diadem, 
 
 Formed by the gathered rain-drops on the leaves. 
 
 As night enshrouds all beauty, so one thought, 
 
 One recollection, darken's beauty — life. 
 My God ! ah ! why are we, thy creatures, brought 
 
 Into a world of sorrow and self-strife ? 
 
 Thou givest the bird his wings, that he may flee 
 At will, o'er hill and vaUey, wood and plain ; 
 
 His skiU and industry unto the bee. 
 
 To store his food e'er winter come again. 
 
 To all thy various creatures, various powers, 
 
 Suited to each — and suited to their end ; 
 And giving happiness by use — but ours. 
 
 The power to love — not love ! Ah, wherefore lend ? 
 
 Why are men's fates and minds at variance still ? 
 
 Why true nobility debased and poor ? 
 Why have the vain and selfish wealth at will. 
 
 While nobler spirits drudge even at their door ? 
 
 Others have fathers, husbands, love ; alone 
 
 They stand, who, like the trailing plant, most need 
 
 Something to lean on. Yet we are thine own — 
 
 Thou say est — and with our woes thy heart doth bleed.
 
 214 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 Why should we ever build, and ever borrow 
 Hope from the future, that we may endure ? 
 
 Why are we ever pining for the morrow ? 
 
 Why do its wandering swamp fires yet allure ? 
 
 Oh ! it is bitter to watch one hope bloom, 
 And die, as other hopes have bloomed and died ! 
 
 To look on Spring as on a flowery tomb. 
 Where our life's joys lie buried side by side ! 
 
 Take me, O Father ! from a world of sorrow ! 
 
 Thou hast ta'en from me love and friends — take me ! 
 Still thou, this passionate longing for the morrow — 
 
 This wearying search —and take me unto Thee ! 
 
 At last I could struggle no longer ; I was 
 confined to bed.
 
 215 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 As my disease was chiefly mental, that com- 
 plete prostration of strength by which nature 
 revenges herself on any attempt to trample 
 down her instincts, the doctor called in by the 
 Tanners did not exactly know what to call my 
 complaint, or how to treat it. He gave it some 
 learned name, sent in a quantity of medicine, 
 and seemed to think my case dangerous. 
 
 I knew very well what aikd me. I knew 
 that my brain had been overworked by the 
 never-ceasing round of tasks to be heard, exer- 
 cises and sums to look over, and correct. I 
 knew that my life wanted some aliment of hap- 
 piness to make its dreary monotony endurable. 
 
 I lay in my bed for days, helpless and hope- 
 less ; mentally reviewing my prospects, and 
 praying that it would please God to take me 
 out of a weary world. There were plenty of 
 governesses to fill up nfy place. I saw no use
 
 216 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 that I was of; my death might advantage her 
 who should succeed me ; my life benefited no- 
 body ; and least of all myself. If I left 
 White Cross, the next situation I obtained 
 might be worse — for I had no positive ill- 
 treataient to complain of, and I had known 
 governesses who had. 
 
 At Hilton with my aunt Joan I could not 
 live ; her bitter speeches were like a perpetual 
 blister — and what hope was there for me of any 
 comfort in life? Happiness had been offered 
 me, and when I stretched out my hand to grasp 
 it, she flung it violently from me, and it would 
 never, never be offered again. I was not like 
 Harriet Jenkins, a woman who could consider 
 marriage a profession : I wanted sympathy of 
 tastes, congeniality of character, a better, higher 
 type of my own soul — some one to cling to, 
 and to look up to — all these requirements had 
 met in Mr. Tracy. 
 
 And my aunt Joan had prevented my marry- 
 ing him — had driven him out of the country, to 
 die! 
 
 I might have been happy as few women in 
 marriage. Instead, my prospect was this — to 
 lead my present dreary existence in one family 
 after another — thirty years, if my health enabled 
 me to work so long ; and then to end my days 
 in solitary apartments, living upon what I had
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 217 
 
 been able to save, without tie, without hope — 
 childless — if it please God, I would rather die 
 now ! 
 
 Then I thought of the hateful churchyard at 
 White Cross, and I absohitely cried at the 
 thought of being buried there. I have never 
 been able to shake off the idea that the spirit 
 hovers near the remains of its earthly tabernacle, 
 waiting till that which was mortal shall put on 
 immortality ; and I could not bear the thought 
 of being thus chained, even after death, to that 
 desolate spot. 
 
 It was February, and I felt snre I should 
 never see another spring — I should die before 
 the leaves were out. I lay and repeated to my- 
 self, 
 
 " The Xew Year's coming up, but I shall never see 
 The May upon the blackthorn, the leaf upon the tree ! " 
 
 Of course I did not express these morbid 
 fancies — for morbid they were — to Lady Tanner, 
 her daughters, or Madame St. Croix, when 
 they came to visit me in my sick chamber. I 
 should as soon have sought sympathy from 
 statues, as revealed my inner heart to them. It 
 was precisely because I had given no vent to my 
 feelings, but resolutely crushed them down, and 
 trampled upon them, that I was so ill. At last 
 Harriet Jenkins came to see me.
 
 218 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 *^ I am sorry to find you such an invalid, dear 
 Miss Neville," said she ; *' but the spring will 
 soon he here, and then you will recover ra- 
 pidly." 
 
 I shook my head, and, with the melancholy 
 desponding tone that had become habitual to me, 
 repeated my favourite lines, 
 
 " The New Year's coming up, but I shall never see 
 The May upon the blackthorn, the leaf upon the tree ! " 
 
 Harriet made no reply; she saw it was in vain 
 to combat the idea that had taken possession 
 of me, that I should die, and be buried at White 
 Cross ; and she turned the conversation. She 
 spoke of herself and her own prospects. 
 
 " Do you know, Miss Neville," she said, ''that 
 I am ufraid I shall have to tread in your steps, 
 and become a governess ! " 
 
 ''You! Why?^^ 
 
 " Because my father is a very old man, and 
 his infirmities increase daily. He is more than 
 seventy -five, and I dare not hope his life will be 
 prolonged many years. There were fifteen of 
 us, and the others were all boys, requiring 
 expensive educations, and a great deal of money 
 to place them out in the world ; so that he has 
 only been able to save a trifle as a provision for 
 my mother and myself I do not like the 
 thought of governessing, but I do not so much
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 219 
 
 mind for myself as for mamma, who would be 
 left utterly alone when she needed me most." 
 
 " Harriet ! " 
 
 ^' It is true," she answered, quietly; ^* and it is 
 a dreary prospect for both of us, but especially 
 for mamma, to leave the home where she has 
 lived so long, and to lose all the comforts she 
 has been used to. Mamma is seventy." 
 
 " It is indeed !" I answered, more energetically 
 than I had spoken for weeks. " I fancied you 
 well off — I never thought of this." 
 
 *' People seldom do know the real situation of 
 their neighbours," answered Harriet; ^* but I see 
 little chance of any better prospect. If poor 
 John had lived, we were both to have resided 
 with him ; but he is gone, and we must do the 
 best we can. I mean to give up the interest of my 
 share to mamma ; and perhaps, with that added to 
 her own, she may be able to board somewhere, 
 but it will be among strangers. As for me, I 
 must work." 
 
 My heart rushed to my throat, and seemed to 
 choke me. I was too much grieved to speak, 
 as I thought of this poor old lady, who had been 
 used, for the last fifty years, to an income of a 
 thousand a-year, and a large, well- furnished 
 house, obliged to quit it, and to live alone in a 
 small lodging, exposed to all the many annoy- 
 ances of that comfortless life — she, who had so
 
 220 A FAMILY HISTORT. 
 
 many children dwelling in as dreary a solitude as 
 that I had pictured for myself — she, who had 
 been used to be the mistress of many servants, 
 obliged, in her feebleness, to wait upon herself. 
 I felt rebuked. How small and insignificant 
 were my trials compared to hers — I had lost the 
 lover, she would lose the faithful friend of fifty 
 years — [ had youth and strength to bear my 
 sorrows ; hers were coming upon her when her 
 strength had failed. At last I said, 
 
 ''Dear Harriet, I am very sorry for you 
 both." 
 
 '' I knew you would be, or I should not have 
 told you," she answered. '' But now I must 
 go ; Doctor Batt said you were to be kept quiet, 
 and I see you look feverish and flushed. When 
 you are better you must come and stay two or 
 three days at the Rectory ; while we are there 
 we shall be glad to see you. Good-bye 
 now." 
 
 She went, but her visit had done me good : 
 it had turned the current of my thoughts from 
 my own sorrows to those of others. The same 
 disposition which made me feel my own isolation 
 so keenly made me readily sympathize with the 
 sufferings of others. I thought less of White 
 Cross churchyard, and more of Harriet Jenkins 
 and her mother, that evening. In a few days 
 she came again. The sun was shining brilliantly,
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 221 
 
 and the birds, rejoicing in the warmth, were 
 singing gaily — but I was weaker than ever. I 
 had had the blind let down, and the thick green 
 curtains drawn across my window, and I had 
 myself pnlled the hangings of my French bed as 
 close as they would come, in order to shut out 
 the light. 
 
 My eyes ached from weakness and want of 
 sleep ; I felt as if the bright sunshine and the 
 happiness of the world were a mockery of my 
 wretchedness. 
 
 *' How are you to-day ? " 
 
 " Worse," I said, in a doleful tone ; *^ I told 
 you I should never see the blackthorn-flower — I 
 am dying by inches." 
 
 She drew her left hand from behind her, and 
 laid three sprays of blackthorn upon my bed. 
 
 "There!" said she, "don't talk of never see- 
 ing the blackthorn-blossom again. I gathered 
 those sprays for you from a large bush, as I 
 crossed the fields between our house and the 
 Priory. You must go and look at it when you 
 get out ; it is one sheet of white blossom." 
 
 " Thank you ! Whereabouts does it grow ? " 
 
 " In the third field from the Priory. It is a 
 very little way oflf: you will be able to walk 
 there in a day or two." 
 
 ** I should like this put in water, that I may 
 see it. I like to look at it."
 
 222 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 " I must draw up the curtains, then, or I can't 
 find a tumbler to put it in. The room is so dark 
 I can see nothing. Where will you have it 
 put?" 
 
 " On the mantelpiece. I can see it from 
 here." 
 
 She drew up the blind and curtains, and let in 
 the glorious sunshine. She even opened the 
 window for a few moments, and the perfume of 
 the wall-flowers beneath it was wafted in on 
 the breezes. Then she put the blackthorn in 
 water. 
 
 The sight and scent of flowers revived me. In 
 my morbid state of mind I had actually per- 
 suaded myself I never should see the blackthorn 
 in flower, and there it was before my eyes. The 
 sight of it was a medicine to me. From that 
 moment I began to amend. 
 
 On the fifth day from that I leant on Harriet's 
 arm, and walked to the blackthorn bush. It was 
 a very short distance from the house, and I often 
 had to sit down and rest by the way, but I 
 reached it. The birds were carolling gaily, the 
 swans sailed majestically on the calm lake, the 
 grass sprung fresh and green in the meadows by 
 its brink, and the young lambs ran bleating be- 
 side their mothers. 
 
 Though the country was flat and uninteresting, 
 the verdure of the fields was so bright, and there
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 223 
 
 was such a balmy freshness in the air, that the 
 languid blood seemed to flow more freely and 
 healthily in my veins. The torpor which had 
 hung over me was dispelled ; and I sat and 
 looked with pleasure on the green grass, the 
 happy living creatures, and the ^' May upon the 
 blackthorn, the leaf upon the tree.'' 
 
 I gathered two or three sprays. As I went 
 home, still leaning on Harriet's arm, I noticed 
 the nettles springing in the ditches, the white 
 stars of the hawthorn buds beginning to unfold 
 their bright green leaves. I carried a small 
 nosegay home, and put it on the mantelpiece in 
 my bed-room. In a week I was well. 
 
 If any think my illness was purely imagi- 
 nary, they will do me great injustice : it was very 
 real. The sea-air produces congestion of the 
 liver with some people : it does with me. I was 
 seldom free from intensely painful headaches 
 while I remained at White Cross. A sense of 
 languor and weariness, that no sorrow or suffering 
 in any other place ever brought on, weighed al- 
 ways upon me there, and I felt life as an intoler- 
 able burden which I had not strength left to 
 carry. Add to this, that with a heart pining and 
 thirsting after human affection, I could win no 
 love, no regard from any of those around me, do 
 what I would ; and that I carried at my heart a 
 secret sorrow, under which many a young girl
 
 224 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 before me has sunk and died in happier surround- 
 ing circumstances than mine — and I think the 
 sternest and coldest will acquit me of weak sen- 
 timentalism. I had not yielded weakly ; I had 
 fought against depression, against discontent, 
 against remembrance, by unceasing exertion, 
 until my health utterly gave way. 
 
 I must do Lady Tanner and her daughters the 
 justice to say that every possible attention was 
 paid .me in my illness. I had good medical ad- 
 vice, and all sorts of jellies and nice things to 
 tempt my sickly appetite. They came in turns 
 to see me, and one of the young ladies read some 
 religious book, or the bible, to me, for a short 
 time every day. But their kindness did me no 
 good, for they put no heart into it — it was all 
 cold duty. They did not give me that for which 
 I was pining — love and sympathy. They were 
 still Sir James Tanner's wealthy, high-born 
 daughters, and I the poor dependent governess, 
 whose want of riches made me, notwithstanding 
 my gentlewoman's education and my ancient 
 lineage, in their ideas as far beneath them as the 
 uneducated cottars on their estates. 
 
 Human beings are created gregarious. They 
 pine in solitude ; and Crusoe in his desert island 
 was not more completely isolated than the young, 
 pretty, delicate, well-educated, and well-born girl
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 225 
 
 who earns her bread as a governess is, by the 
 unchristian pride, the conventional maxims, of 
 society. In every other mode of existence, every 
 other way of earning a living, there is compan- 
 ionship ; but she is debarred from the society of 
 her fellows — she, whose overtaxed nerves, wea- 
 ried by the ceaseless- repetition of lessons, and all 
 the trying ordeal of a teacher's life, most needs 
 the solace and refreshment of change of scene 
 and friendly intercourse, after her diurnal labours 
 are over, to strengthen and recruit her for the 
 fatigues of another day — spends the evening 
 hours in lonely solitude, or, as a suffered and 
 unwelcome guest, in the family circle of her 
 employers. 
 
 No wonder so many governesses go mad ! 
 
 Thus, I felt no gratitude to Lady Tanner or 
 her daughters for showing me the same attentions 
 they would have shown to their sick maid — for 
 the stately courtesy which they, as queens, 
 showed to me, a subject. 
 
 Harriet's sprays of blackthorn did me more 
 good than all their cold civilities. The kindness 
 she showed me came from the heart. 
 
 I was ashamed to think how 1 had under- 
 valued her the day she dined at the Eriory. I saw 
 now why she was so anxious to marry. I thought 
 it a happiness she did not entertain the same 
 highflown sentiments on the subject that I did, 
 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 226 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 but could reconcile herself to seeking a provi- 
 sion in marriage ; and only regretted that, with 
 such prudent dispositions, she had met no suc- 
 cess.
 
 227 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 It has often struck me that the history of a life 
 resembles a spider's web. The different charac- 
 ters we become acquainted with, and the events 
 which arise from that intercourse, may seem to 
 lie far apart, and to have no possible connection 
 with each other ; yet it will be found that they 
 are all united together by fine, almost invisible, 
 threads, and tend to one given end, as the lines 
 of the web radiate to one common centre. After- 
 wards, when our destiny is fulfilled, it is curious 
 to look back and see the influence that events, 
 apparently very trivial in themselves, exerted 
 over it, and to trace how the fortunes of one per- 
 son are closely interwoven with the fortunes of 
 another, with which they appear at first wholly 
 unconnected. 
 
 I heard occasionally from Georgiana Stanley. 
 Her letters were like most schoolgirls'. She said 
 that she often wished for me, though she was 
 
 q2
 
 228 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 very happy at school ; told me what new girls 
 had come that half; gave me their names and 
 parentage, and informed me whether they were 
 pretty or ugly, clever or stupid. She likewise 
 informed me what pieces of music she was prac- 
 tising, and what new songs she sang ; and men- 
 tioned in a postscript that mamma had got a new 
 baby, called Jessie. They were nice, natural, 
 frank-hearted epistles, all the more valuable from 
 their very incoherentness, which proved them to 
 be the genuine outpourings of the girl's own af- 
 fectionate heart. I would not have given a sou 
 for a neatly- written, mawkish, insipid composi- 
 tion of polite phrases, and cut-and-dry good 
 maxims, and patronizing advice, such as the Miss 
 Tarniers would have written, had they deigned 
 to correspond with a governess. Georgie's letters 
 were like herself— full of inequalities and blun- 
 ders, but genuine heart of oak, worth all the 
 veneer and French polish in the world. I locked 
 the one safely up in my bureau, and gave the 
 other a place in my inmost heart, beside Anne 
 and Melusina Beauchamp. 
 
 In the third year of my residence at White 
 Cross Priory I received a letter from her, and 
 thus it ran : 
 
 ^'My dear Lizzie, — You are a shabby old 
 thing for not writing to me oftener, and I should 
 be jealous of those Miss Tanners, only I can see
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 229 
 
 with half an eye you don't like them. Now, 
 don't tell a fib and say you do, for I know you 
 don't. What do you think has happened ? 
 Guess ! Papa has got the living of Brooldynri, 
 in Yorkshire ; and now I really do hope we 
 shall meet before very long. 
 
 '* It is a great deal better living than Weston^ 
 which is a good thing for papa. He went last 
 week to be inducted. I made him so cross — 
 for I told Mrs. Williams he was indicted, and 
 she went and told him, and laughed about it ; 
 wasn't it a shame ? As he passed through Burton, 
 on his way back, he called for me, and brought 
 me home to help ma to pack, and to bid good- 
 bye to the old place and all our kind neighbours. 
 
 " Papa says Brooklynn's a sweet place, with 
 a brook running through it, that falls over some 
 high rocks near the village, in a beautiful 
 cascade — and that's why it's called Brook- 
 lynn. 
 
 *^ You may fancy what a muddle we're in 
 packing; ma's almost beside herself; and I'm 
 so busy 1 don't know what to do, only I ivould 
 write, and tell you the good news. 
 
 ^' Old Mrs. Dobbs is dead ; and Jem Wilson, 
 the carpenter — of course, you remember him, 
 for he put up the shelves in our school-room — 
 has jilted poor Ann, and married farmer Adams' 
 daughter for her money. The boys say they
 
 230 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 hope she'll tease his heart out ; and I think she 
 will ; for I saw her at church on Sunday, and 
 she's got a sharp peaked nose, and a pinched-in 
 mouth, just as if she was always saying ^ miminy- 
 piminy stewed prunes,'* like Miss Loftus, who 
 left this half. Poor Ann sits at the nursery 
 window, and cries, as she looks out at the cottage 
 where she thought she should live, and forgets 
 all ma tells her to do ; so she's not much help ; 
 and Lucy, and Beatrice, and I, run up and down 
 stairs, and fetch things for ma and nurse to pack, 
 from morning to night. Tve packed all the 
 linen, and papa and I packed the books ; but I 
 won't pack ma's fine drawing-room ornaments, 
 for if they get broken, in travelling down, she'll 
 say it was my fault, and I hadn't packed them 
 properly. I just wish you saw ma and nurse, 
 on their knees before a great box, consulting 
 how they shall pack the globe that holds the 
 gold-fish. I couldn't help laughing if they broke 
 it between them, for they're always telling me 
 how awkwardly I pack. The fishes are put in 
 an old soup-tureen for the present, and Lucy's 
 going to carry them to Brooklynn in a small 
 basin, which just fits in her work-basket. I 
 
 * To repeat " miminy-piminy stewed prunes" continually is 
 a famous school-girl receipt for producing a small mouth. Who 
 invented it I don't know ; but I have known it practised by 
 girls in various parts of England. French school-girls have an 
 equivalent for it, which I forget.
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 231 
 
 daresay they won't like the journey ; and I 
 wanted ma to give them away, but she won't. 
 
 *^ Tm going to stay at home till they all 
 leave, instead of having my usual holidays, which 
 I'm to spend at school, because pa says it's such 
 a long, expensive journey to Yorkshire. Papa 
 does not intend me to return home any more till 
 I leave for good. 
 
 ** The boys, and Lucy, and Beatrice, Julia 
 and Emma, send their best love, and baby blows 
 you a kiss. I send you twenty — and remain, 
 my dear Lizzie, your affectionate friend and 
 former pupil, 
 
 *' Georgiana Stanley. 
 
 "P.S. What fun it will be to meet in York- 
 shire, won't it ?" 
 
 I read this letter twice before I locked it up. 
 It was with a sorrowful feeling of regret that I 
 reflected how little likely my warm-hearted 
 pupil's wishes were to be realized. Each Kiding 
 of Yorkshire is a county in itself. I lived on 
 the sea-coast of one ; Brooklynn lay on the road 
 toward Kendal, on the extreme boundary of the 
 other. It seemed to me that for all prospect or 
 chance there was of our meeting the Stanleys 
 might as well have remained at Weston ; but I 
 was heartily glad Mr. Stanley had been pre- 
 sented to a valuable living, which would better
 
 232 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 enable him to educate and provide for his large 
 family. 
 
 I sat down and wrote my sincere congratula- 
 tions. When I had sealed my epistle and put it 
 in the letter-box, I fell to considering the hard 
 lot of governesses. 
 
 For two or three years, perhaps, I should 
 hear occasionally fromGeorgiana Stanley ; gradu- 
 ally our correspondence would cease — nearer and 
 dearer ties would leave no room for me in her 
 heart ; but she would probably retain through 
 life a kind remembrance of me. That was all I 
 could expect. 
 
 I tried to satisfy myself by reflecting that the 
 consciousness of duty fulfilled was a recompense 
 in itself ; but I could not bring myself to feel 
 content with a life passed without love. 
 
 Then, again, I thought sadly of what might 
 have been but for my aunt Joan. 
 
 I made, up my mind I had lost sight of the 
 Stanleys for ever. 
 
 How could I suppose that Georgiana Stanley 
 would ever influence my fate ? How could I 
 imagine that when I took such pains to win her 
 stubborn heart, and lay the foundation of im- 
 provement in her character, I was at the same 
 time laying the deep foundations of my own 
 haj3piness ? 
 
 At White Cross all went on as usual. We
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 233 
 
 prayed, and listened to edifying books and im- 
 proving conversations afterwards, and passed the 
 rest of the day in the customary dull routine of 
 ceaseless tasks. 
 
 Some of these conversations struck me as so 
 singularly at variance with Christian precepts, 
 that I noted them down. 
 
 Lady Tanner's sister, Mrs. Wriothesley Beau- 
 mont, xinne and Melusina Beauchamp, were the 
 only guests at the Priory, one day when the 
 inmates of the school-room '* enjoyed the privi- 
 lege" of listening to a sermon on Christian Hu- 
 mility, and ^' an improving conversation" after it. 
 
 Here is the conversation, word for word : — 
 
 " Who is that sermon you have been reading 
 by, Lucilla?" asked Mrs. Wriothesley Beaumont. 
 
 " The Bishop of Kirton, dear aunt." 
 
 *' The Bishop of Kirton — I don't exactly re- 
 member who he is? Is he not a Doctor Bur- 
 ton ? " 
 
 *' Yes, aunt, dear. He was tutor in Lord 
 Middleton's family. He is a most excellent man, 
 devoted to doing good in his parish, and a most 
 eloquent preacher. I hear he has just published 
 another volume of sermons ; we must get them." 
 
 ^' Talking of tutors," said Anne Beauchamp, 
 *^ how does Sir James like Mr. Haultain ? " 
 
 *^ Oh ! very well, I believe. He is at Oxford 
 with Charley now," replied Miss Lucilla.
 
 234 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 "Yes, and it is such a relief," said Miss 
 Agatha ; " I don't, of course, mean dear Charley's 
 absence — but to get rid of the tutor.'' 
 
 " Certainly the presence of a stranger is rather 
 a restraint in a family circle," said Anne. 
 
 '' Oh ! it's not that," said Miss Lucilla; " but 
 it's so difficult to know how to behave to a bro- 
 ther's tutor." 
 
 " I should think it was very easy," remarked 
 Melusina ; " can't you treat him like any other 
 gentleman ? " 
 
 '^ Like a gentleman, of course ; but then — one 
 wants to be civil to him, but not have him fancy 
 himself one's equal, and pay one attention," said 
 Miss Tanner. 
 
 " Do you think the Bishop of Kirton your 
 equal ? " asked the impracticable Melusina. 
 
 '^ Doctor Burton? Of course. He is a most 
 charming man ; not the least set up by his station 
 or dignity, but so truly religious, and humble- 
 minded." 
 
 " A most delightful man," observed Lady 
 Tanner, with a smile of great benignity. 
 
 " And his wife. Lady Elizabeth, is a sweet 
 woman," said Miss Matilda. 
 
 " She was Lady Elizabeth Rivers, Earl Rivers' 
 daughter, I rather think ? " observed Melusina. 
 
 " Yes, she was." 
 
 " Then an Earl's daughter is a fit match for a
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 235 
 
 hisliop — consequently, I suppose, Lucilla, you or 
 your sisters would not think it infra dig, to 
 marry a bishop ?" 
 
 *' Certainly not. Do you suppose we should ?" 
 
 " I did not know, after what you said about 
 tutors. Dr. Burton was tutor in Lord Middle- 
 ton's family before he was a bishop." 
 
 " I know he was. Most bishops are tutors in 
 some great family first — it is a step in the ladder 
 of preferment," said Miss Tanner. 
 
 '' You couldn't, any of you, have married him 
 then ? " asked the perverse Melusina. 
 
 " Of course not. How can you ask such a 
 question, Lina ? A tutor and a bishop are very 
 different persons." 
 
 '^ So it seems. As different as light and dark- 
 ness, and yet the earth is the same world by 
 night as by day. There are the same moun- 
 tains and valleys, woods and streams ; but dim, 
 indistinct, and faintly seen, like the tutor's merits: 
 or to take another simile, the tutor is the uncut 
 diamond, the bishop is the same stone set in 
 gold. It strikes me the value of the ring lies in 
 the stone, not in the setting," said Melusina. 
 
 *' That speech is so like you, Lina. Of course 
 you know what I mean well enough. A bishop 
 is any lady's equal, and a tutor is not," replied 
 Lucilla. 
 
 "Not any tutor, I acknowledge," returned
 
 236 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 Melasma ; *' but Dr. Burton was the son of the 
 Kector of Chiselhurst, the grandson of the 
 Archbishop of York. Agatha is engaged to the 
 Eector of Stockton. I do not see that he is any 
 higher in rank than your brother's tutor, Mr. 
 Haultain, who is of a good obi Cornish family, 
 and the son of a post-captain in the Navy/' 
 
 Lucilla seemed a little disturbed, and replied, 
 ^' You don't choose to understand, Melusina — / 
 see the difference.'^ 
 
 And I am sure she did. With all their pro- 
 fessions of admiration for Christian humility, 
 pious character, and cultivated mind, it was 
 wealth and high social position only that could 
 attract the Miss Tanners. 
 
 Among the ladies who visited at the Piiory 
 was a Miss St. Maur. She was clever and 
 accomplished; the Miss Tanners rather liked 
 her. I had seen her several times at '* the 
 readings." Once I chanced to hear Miss Lucilla 
 say, '' She would have a gentlewoman's small 
 fortune — about ten thousand pounds." 
 
 Unfortunately her father, Admiral St. Maur, 
 speculated in certain foreign bonds, and lost all 
 his fortune. He had a large family. It was 
 thought desirable that Leonora St. Maur should 
 go out as a governess or companion. 
 
 Naturally, she applied to her friends the Miss 
 Tanners, who, having a very numerous circle of
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 337 
 
 acquaintance, were peo[>le likely to be able to 
 assist her in obtaining a situation. They ex- 
 pressed much interest in her change of fortune, 
 and they invited her to White Cross Priory. 
 She came. 
 
 '* Our friend and relation. Lady Derwent, 
 wants a companion and reader," 1 heard Miss 
 Agatha say to her one day. ^' Lady Derwent is 
 a most delightful person ; she is a woman of 
 very great talent ; and as you are yourself of a 
 literary turn, I should think the occupation 
 would suit you exactly.'' 
 
 '* I should like it very much," replied Miss 
 St. Maur. 
 
 ^' There is one thing — of course, Miss St. 
 Maur, you would understand that if visitors 
 came in, you would be expected not to speak, or 
 join in the conversation." 
 
 Miss St. Maur coloured deeply and painfully, 
 up to the very roots of her hair. She made no 
 reply, and the subject was dropped then, and 
 for ever. 
 
 For me, I marvelled at the hardness of heart 
 and coolness with which Agatha, a young girl of 
 eighteen, could tell a woman of seven and 
 twenty, who had frequently been thought worthy 
 of an invitation to the Priory, that, now her 
 father had lost his fortune, she must no lonofer 
 consider herself as a gentlewoman among gentle-
 
 238 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 women, but as a paid dependent, whose business 
 it was 
 
 " To hear and to obey, 
 
 No more dare slave, to ' English lady ' say." 
 
 An evil feeling came over me. I wished Sir 
 James Tanner might lose his fortune, and that 
 the Miss Tanners might have to go out as 
 governesses, as I had known a baronet's daughter 
 obliged to do. 
 
 There is something terrible in the Mammon- 
 worship of England — in the way it smothers 
 every noble and generous sentiment. That 
 there must be a difference of ranks, I admit — 
 that a great difference in customs and manners 
 separates the middle classes from the highest is 
 true, though the prevalence of education dimin- 
 ishes that year by year ; but that people should 
 treat their own former intimates as inferiors, 
 merely because, through no fault, they have lost 
 their fortune, happens nowhere but in Eng- 
 land. 
 
 Abroad a man may be poor, and yet con- 
 sidered a gentleman ; a woman stand at the 
 wash-tub — as duchesses are doing weekly near 
 Tours — without being deserted by their friends. 
 
 Truly we are a nation of shopkeepers ; for we 
 venerate nothing but wealth ! 
 
 After that conversation, Miss St. Maur asked
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 239 
 
 Lady Tanner's leave to spend the two days that 
 yet remained of her visit in the schoolroom, that 
 she might see the routine of the lessons ; but I 
 think she chiefly wished to escape the con- 
 descending pity of the Miss Tanners. 
 
 She and I walked down together that evening 
 to the beach. It was a beautiful September 
 night. The sands were firm and dry, and the 
 tide was slowly coming in. The shades of even- 
 ing softened and veiled the dreariness of the 
 landscape ; and the dark colour of the sea, at 
 that hour, harmonized with the universal tint of 
 grey. The sky was clear and bright — light 
 fleecy clouds floated athwart it ; and the full 
 harvest-moon cast a broad line of white radiance 
 on the waves. 
 
 " See," said I to my companion, *^ I have 
 often fancied that must be the path to heaven — 
 I could dream that angels were descending and 
 ascending along it." 
 
 " Do they ever come to earth?" said Leonora; 
 '^ and if they do, what must they think of man's 
 paltry pride!" 
 
 I knew she was thinking of what had oc- 
 curred in the morning, and I replied, 
 
 ^^ I should think they pitied it. You have 
 seen this beach by day. Miss St. Maur, then it 
 looks dreary and desolate : now in the softening 
 light of the moon, and with those countless stars
 
 240 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 sparlding upon the water, it is inexpressibly 
 beautiful. I fancy true religion should be like 
 moonlight — calm, soothing, holy; veiling incon- 
 sistencies; shedding a soft light ou what is dark 
 and sorrowful; and as in its appointed course it 
 traverses the earth, leaving behind it a radiant 
 track, like that of the moon over the waves, for 
 others to follow." 
 
 We walked some time longer. A soft breeze 
 came from the shore; the waves rippled on, 
 and broke in white foam at our feet : just where 
 the far expanse of the horizon met the sea, the 
 clouds suddenly parted — the sky opened — we 
 saw a dazzling splendour too bright to gaze 
 upon — it seemed as if that shining way really 
 was the path to heaven, and the walls of the 
 Eternal City were revealed to us, glowing in 
 crimson and gold. It was a flash of summer 
 lightning. 
 
 The holy beauty of nature shed balm on our 
 troubled spirits : we returned to the house 
 calmed and comforted.
 
 241 
 
 CHAPTEFt XII. 
 
 For some months I had seen little of Harriet 
 Jenkins. My time was not my own, and I 
 seldom had it in my power to go to the llectory, 
 while Harriet was kept at home by the in- 
 creasing illness of her father. For the last two 
 years he had been obliged to keep a curate, and 
 rumour, who is always busy in country villages, 
 said that he was engaged to Miss Jenkins. 
 Whether she was too busy love-making, or 
 whether the state of her father's health pre- 
 vented her from seeing any one, I do not know; 
 but for some months she had not invited me to 
 the Rectory. 
 
 One Saturday afternoon I walked there, and 
 was admitted. The two old people sat in their 
 chairs on each side of the fire, though it was 
 early in September and oppressively hot. I 
 looked at them, and was shocked at the change 
 
 VOL. I. R
 
 242 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 a few months had made in their appearance. I 
 noticed then, what I have since observed to be 
 generally the case, that old age seems to come 
 in a day. For years, anxiety, labour, and sor- 
 row are sapping the foundations unobserved; 
 suddenly the fortress falls a ruin. When I first 
 saw Mr. and Mrs. Jenkins, at White Cross 
 Priory, they appeared two hale middle-aged 
 people; now I saw they were very old. The 
 superstructure was undermined, the walls tot- 
 tered to their fall. 
 
 Each put out a thin shaky hand, and said it 
 was long since they had seen me. I replied I 
 had called many times, but was told Dr. Jenkins 
 was ill. 
 
 ^* Yes,'' said he, " I have been ill, very ill ; 
 I am so now; but I am glad to see my friends 
 while I can." 
 
 Harriet welcomed me gravely, but kindly. 
 She, too, seemed aged, and altered. I sat with 
 them a short time. When I rose to come away, 
 the old man took both my hands, and said in a 
 trembling voice, 
 
 '' Good-bye, Miss Neville — God bless you!" 
 
 I saw he was thinkincr that he should never 
 
 A week afterwards I heard Dr. Jenkins was 
 dead.
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 243 
 
 " Now, I hope we shall have an active, reli- 
 gious man, who will look after the schools, and 
 do some good in the parish," was Lady Tanner's 
 comment on the news. 
 
 ^' Yes, I do hope the new incumbent will be a 
 very different person from Dr. Jenkins," said 
 Miss Lucilla. 
 
 There was not one word of sympathy for the 
 bereaved family. Sometime afterwards, one 
 Saturday afternoon, I was taking a solitary 
 walk, when I met Mrs. Batt, the doctor's 
 wife. 
 
 "Oh! Miss Neville," she exclaimed, "have 
 you heard about those poor Jenkins? 
 
 " Yes, I heard on Monday that Dr. Jenkins 
 was dead." 
 
 " But did you hear of the terrible situation 
 in which he has left his family?" 
 
 "No, not precisely. Harriet once told me 
 she feared her mother and herself would be very 
 slenderly provided for." 
 
 " Slenderly ! My dear, they have nothing ! — 
 nothing. That old furniture will not sell for 
 what will pay the funeral expenses. Doctor 
 Batt's bill must go unpaid ; indeed, he would 
 scorn to send it in, when he knows their distress. 
 God bless him ! he would rather give them a 
 ten-pound note than take anything from them. 
 I don't know what is to become of Mrs. Jenkins. 
 
 r2
 
 244 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 The old man had saved up four thousand 
 pounds ; he was induced to lend it on mortgage. 
 I don't understand business, and it's a long 
 story ; but the upshot is, the man who borrowed 
 it is bankrupt, and they are rained. The old 
 man blamed himself for having been led to make 
 such an investment, and could not bear it talked 
 of; but he never held up his head after the 
 news came — it was that which really killed him. 
 No wonder Batt's medicines did him no good. 
 You know, my dear, the cleverest man cannot 
 heal a broken heart." 
 
 '^Xo, nor old age, Mrs. Batt. Any way, I 
 should suppose Dr. Jenkins's days were num- 
 bered ; but I am sorry his last moments were 
 embittered by anxiety for poor old Mrs. Jenkins 
 and Harriet. I wish I could help them." 
 
 *^ So do I, I am sure. Batt will not accept a 
 farthing. He is gone there now, for poor Mrs. 
 Jenkins has been confined to bed ever since 
 her husband's death. She would totter about 
 and try and nurse him, and now she is ill her- 
 self." 
 
 "I am very sorry — it is a fresh anxiety for 
 Harriet. What are they to do ? " 
 
 " Why, this is what they intend. Harriet 
 talked it over with Batt. She made no effort at 
 concealment. She is to marry her father's late 
 curate, Mr. Robson — that is a provision for her.
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 245 
 
 He has lately got the perpetual curacy of East 
 Bourne, as you know, and only stayed on here to 
 oblige Dr. Jenkins, the archbishop permitting 
 his non-residence, under the circumstances. But 
 he cannot marry her mother too, for he has not 
 a farthing exclusive of his curacy, and that is 
 only a hundred a year, out of which he will 
 have to be at the head of a parish, and to keep 
 himself, his wife and child ; for you know his 
 first wife left a little girl. Still, the marriage 
 secures poor Harriet a shelter, and she was not 
 sufficiently well-educated for a governess in these 
 days." 
 
 ^' But what is to become of the poor old mo- 
 ther ? " 
 
 *' She told Batt she had taken a cottage in 
 her own county, Durham, at five pounds a year 
 rent. Quite a labourer's cottage, with a brick 
 floor to it. Just think of that poor old woman 
 at seventy-two, leaving that nice comfortable 
 Rectory, with its warm parlours and carpeted 
 floors, for a little, nasty, draughty, brick-floored 
 cottage. There were tears in Batt's eyes when 
 he told me. I should not wonder if he paid the 
 two first years' rent himself — it would be just 
 like him. I tell him his money must be red 
 hot, and burn a hole in his pocket," said Mrs. 
 Batt, pretending to find fault, but evidently 
 justly proud of her husband's benevolence.
 
 246 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 ^' But the many sons — are there none among 
 them that can help their mother ? " 
 
 '' I fear not. The eldest, you know, failed in 
 business a year ago, and is in great difficulties 
 himself. I do not know how he and his wife 
 exist. Poor John, who had a good living, died ; 
 as did one or two others whom I never knew. 
 Geoffi-ey was doing very well as an architect in 
 London before he fell from a scaffolding and in- 
 jured his spine. For the last three years, as 
 you know, he has been dependent on his parents 
 for a maintenance ; but he was a dutiful, good 
 son while he had it in his power to assist them. 
 He is to go into Durham with Mrs. Jenkins. 
 The only one that could give any help is Ben, 
 and twelve months must elapse before they can 
 write to him and receive his answer. But I 
 must hurry home — we dine at three o'clock 
 to-day. Good-bye.'^ 
 
 We shook hands, and I returned to the Priory, 
 grieving over the melancholy history I had 
 just heard. I wished a subscription could be 
 raised for poor Mrs. Jenkins. Two hundred 
 and fifty pounds had been collected in a very 
 few days by Mr. Stanley, for a clergyman's 
 widow near Weston, whose husband, dying sud- 
 denly, left her totally unprovided for ; and this 
 was a case of far greater distress, for the former 
 was a healthy young woman, able to exert herself;
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 247 
 
 while neither Mrs. Jenkins nor her son Geoffrey 
 could do so. The more I thought of this 
 scheme, the more feasihle it seemed. I knew 
 that neither Mrs. Jenkins nor Harriet would feel 
 wounded by such a proposition ; and surely the 
 Tanners, who had been their neighbours forty 
 years, and who were always getting up sub- 
 scriptions for something or other, would not 
 see an old lady of seventy-two, and her crip- 
 pled helpless son, reduced from a life of comfort 
 to want, without doing something to aid 
 them ! 
 
 Full of these thoughts, I entered the school- 
 room before going upstairs to take off my bon- 
 net and scarf, hoping to find some of the elder 
 Miss Tanners there, and to interest them for 
 Mrs. Jenkins. 
 
 Miss Lucilla was giving one of her sisters a 
 drawing-lesson, and I repeated to her the sad 
 story I had just heard, concluding with, 
 
 *' Don't you think something could be done 
 to help her, Miss Lucilla ? It seems so sad 
 that an old woman of seventy-two should have 
 to leave that comfortable Eectory, and go and 
 live in a brick-lloored cottage like Thomas 
 Green's." 
 
 " Dr. Jenkins had an excellent living. They 
 should have been more prudent, and saved," 
 replied Miss Lucilla.
 
 248 A FAMILY HISTORY.' 
 
 '^ Bat they had such a large family — sixteen 
 children to educate and place out — that Dr. Jen- 
 kins could not save anything till very lately. 
 Latterly he had been economising. Mrs. Batt 
 told me he had saved up four thousand pounds, 
 as a provision for his wife, Geoffrey, and Harriet. 
 Unhappily he was advised by his lawyer to 
 place it on mortgage, and the borrower has 
 become bankrupt." 
 
 *' He ought not to have speculated in any 
 way, but placed it in the Bank of England." 
 
 ^^ It would have been better if he had. But, 
 Miss Lucilla, could not a subscription be raised, 
 or something be done for them? Mrs. Batt 
 told me there was no chance of their ever get- 
 ting a farthing from that mortgage." 
 
 Miss Lucilla raised her head and looked at 
 me, arching her eyebrows in surprise at my pre- 
 sumption, and replied, as she went on coolly cut- 
 ting her pencil, 
 
 ''They must do as they can. Mrs. Jenkins 
 can live with one of her sons." 
 
 '' They are all too poor themselves to help 
 her." 
 
 '' Well, Miss Jenkins is going to be married 
 — there will be a home for the mother." 
 
 *' Mr. Robson has but one hundred a-year to 
 keep himself, his child, and Harriet. She is 
 not going to live with them. She has taken a
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 240 
 
 little cottage in Durham — only think what sort 
 of a place it must be, at tive pounds a-year rent! 
 Think of her in her old age and ill health, and 
 of that poor cripple, losing every comfort in life, 
 having to live in a draughty, brick-floored cot- 
 tage, without a servant ! " 
 
 " They must get on as they can. It is well 
 they have even a brick-floored cottage. They 
 must have known Dr. Jenkins would die some- 
 time, and ought to have provided better," re- 
 plied Miss Lucilla, in a tone which indicated 
 plainly enough that she desired the subject 
 might be dropped. 
 
 I thought " how hard-hearted are the rich," 
 and went with a heavy heart to change my 
 dress. In passing through the corridor I stum- 
 bled upon Lady Tanner and her eldest daughter. 
 I told my story, and received the same harsh 
 answers that Miss Lucilla had given me, only 
 Lady Tanner's curtness of reply shewed she was 
 displeased at my presumption in speaking to 
 her on the subject at all. 
 
 These three conversations will shew why I derived 
 no benefit from all the religious readings and long 
 prayers at White Cross Priory. It appeared to 
 me a mere mockery for people to talk so much 
 and so continually about religion, while they 
 evinced such a want of common feeling, charity, 
 and humility. I professed less goodness, but I
 
 250 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 felt I was better than they were — not so 
 wrapped up in spiritual pride, not so indifferent 
 to the sufferings of others. 
 
 I Avent up to my room. I took out of a 
 drawer a purse that I had lately netted, and put 
 into it five pounds out of my last quarter's salary, 
 which, as it happened. Lady Tanner had paid me 
 the day before. I scribbled a hasty note to 
 Harriet, told her how much I felt indebted to 
 her father, and mother, and herself for all their 
 kindness to me — that I had heard of all their 
 troubles, and hoped Mrs. Jenkins would not 
 refuse to accept the enclosed from me, as a re- 
 membrance of her goodness. I made the purse 
 and note into a small parcel, and, putting on my 
 bonnet and scarf, I took it myself to the Eec- 
 tory, and bade the servant who came to the door 
 to be sure and give it into Miss Jenkins's own 
 hand. Fearing to be Lite for tea, I almost ran 
 there and back, and arrived at home, hot, jaded, 
 and exhausted. But I felt happier — I had given 
 my mite. 
 
 This year proved a melancholy one to others 
 besides the Jenkins. The good Sir Raoul Beau- 
 champ was gathered to his fathers. Beauchamp 
 Abbey was also the scene of mourning, but 
 there natural sorrow was not embittered by the 
 addition of poverty. 
 
 His death was a severe affliction to Anne and
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 251 
 
 Melusina, but they had not to grieve at the 
 same time for their father's death and for the 
 loss of every comfort in life ; and his widow was 
 amply dowered. 
 
 My stay at White Cross was drawing to an 
 end, although I knew it not. Henceforth I 
 shall speak little of the Tanners, but brieMy re- 
 capitulate the causes which led to my leaving 
 them. 
 
 When Georgiana Stanley's education was com- 
 pleted, she left the Miss Carpenters' school, and 
 returned to her father's house. 
 
 She had matured into a striking and elegant 
 girl, endowed with considerable beauty and won- 
 derful musical talent. 
 
 Soon after her return, her father, w^ho was 
 excessively proud of her, took her to a hunt 
 ball. 
 
 She was the belle of the evening. 
 
 Among those whom she attracted was young 
 Sir Harry Beauchamp, who had succeeded his 
 father. Sir Kaoul, in the baronetcy. He met her 
 afterwards at the house of various neighbours, 
 and her enchanting voice completed the conquest 
 her beauty had begun. 
 
 A fine, dashing, healthy, good-tempered girl 
 — something resembling his sister Melusina in 
 character — Georgiana was precisely the person 
 to captivate a proud, shy, taciturn man like Sir
 
 252 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 Harry. Other people feared his satire, and drew 
 back from him ; Georgiana was perfectly at her 
 ease. Her vivacity amused and drew hira out. 
 She was pleased with the attention of a handsome, 
 fashionable man, some years older than h^^self, 
 and very innocently showed by her manner how 
 much she liked him. He had never been liked 
 for himself before. He had been courted as heir 
 to Beauchamp Abbey, and turned out, and hunted 
 by manoeuvring, managing mothers and their 
 marriageable daughters before now ; but it was 
 new and delightful to excite genuine admiration. 
 It gave him pleasure to see that when any dis- 
 cussion arose in conversation, Georgiana's eye 
 instantly sought his face, and that she listened 
 eagerly to hear what was his opinion. He had 
 been used to be feared ; her frank, ready confi- 
 dence charmed him. He saw at once that she 
 had laid no plan to catch him. and that it was 
 her extreme youth and innocence which made 
 her, without knowing it, betray emotions an older 
 woman would have concealed ; and he was far 
 too noble a man to throw back the girlish heart 
 he had won. 
 
 He had begun by only admiring her, but her 
 love compelled his in return. Very shortly after 
 their acquaintance commenced he tendered her 
 his hand, and was accepted with smiles and 
 blushes. Of course her parents were delighted.
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 253 
 
 He was his own master ; there was nothing to 
 wait for — they were married. 
 
 Of all this I was duly informed. Strangely 
 enough, I, and none of her schoolfellows, re- 
 mained Georgiana's chosen friend. I was fa- 
 voured with such marvellous accounts of Harry's 
 goodness, Harry's cleverness, and Harry's beauty, 
 that I almost thought I must have been blind 
 never to have discovered these things in former 
 years. 
 
 I was invited to the wedding, but, of course, 
 could not go to it ; and Lady Beauchamp wTote 
 me all her regrets upon the subject, interspersed 
 with glowing descriptions of her happiness. 
 
 Two such kindred characters as Georgiana and 
 Melusina could not fail to be friends. They told 
 each other all their past history, and great was 
 the surprise, many the exclamations, when it 
 turned out that I w^as the intimate friend of both. 
 
 They laid their heads together to deliver me 
 honourably from what Melusina declared was 
 " worse than Egyptian bondage." 
 
 The marriage, of course, led to a round of 
 invitations and parties ; and in all the visiting 
 that ensued, the two conspirators never ceased 
 inquiring after a situation as governess for an 
 intimate friend of theirs. At last their persever- 
 ance was rewvarded. . One lady did know a gen- 
 tleman who required a governess for his only
 
 254 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 daughter. ^' What salary would their friend 
 require ? ^' 
 
 '' A hundred and twenty guineas a-year," re- 
 plied Lady Beauchamp ; ^'but as she is a gentle- 
 woman, although not rich — in fact, a relation of 
 mine and Melusina's — I think she would take a 
 hundred guineas, if she were treated as one of 
 the family, and made comfortable. I owe every 
 thing to her, for she was my governess ; so it's 
 natural I should be interested in her obtaining 
 a situation where her merits would be appreci- 
 ated." 
 
 " How could you ask such a sum, Georgie ? " 
 said Melusina, when the former narrated the 
 success of her inquiries, on her return to the 
 Abbey. 
 
 " Because I know the world. You may laugh, 
 Harry, but one doesn't go to school for nothing. 
 A school is a little world, and one good of going 
 to it is that it teaches one to look sharp, and 
 have one's wits about one. If you want to get 
 on in the world, you must set a proper value on 
 yourself. * Bode o' a silken goun,' says the 
 Scotch proverb, ^ and ye'll hae the sleeve o't.'" 
 
 '' Upon my word," said Sir Harry, laughing, 
 *^ I have been finely taken in ; I thought I mar- 
 ried an unsophisticated girl, and she proves a 
 perfect woman of the world. I'll sue for a 
 divorce."
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 255 
 
 " Then you won't get it, for you can't prove 
 ill usage.'' 
 
 ^' I'll swear I was cheated." 
 
 ** Won't do. You were at a public school, 
 and ought to have learned not to buy a pig in 
 a poke." 
 
 *' Well, but Avhen you've done fighting with 
 Harry, I want to know what Mvs. Aston said to 
 your modest demands?" observed Melusina. 
 
 *^ Said ? — she looked very grave, and said that 
 ^vas a great deal of money. ^ Not for a person 
 like Miss Neville,' said I ; * indeed, I am not sure 
 she could accept a situation in Mr. Trevor's family 
 at all ; for, to tell you the truth, she does not even 
 know I am making inquiries for her. Lady Tan- 
 ner is perfectly satisfied with her, and she has no 
 thoughts of leaving White Cross ; but the sea 
 air does not agree with her health, and she has 
 five pupils. Melusina and I are anxious to find 
 her a situation wdth some nice family living in 
 an inland place, where she would have good 
 health and more leisure.' As soon as Mrs. Aston 
 heard Lizzie was not to be had, she perked up 
 her ears, just as I knew she would; and said, 
 * Hum — um ! it certainly is a great recommenda- 
 tion to any governess to have brought up Lady 
 Beauchamp, and to have resided three years in 
 Sir James Tanner's family. If my cousin, Mr. 
 Trevor, should feel disposed to give a hundred
 
 256 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 a-year — ' * A hundred guineas! ' said I, ' she ought 
 to have a hundred and twenty ; but from a 
 member of your family, Mrs. Aston, where she 
 vrould be sure of being treated like the gentle- 
 woman she is, I know she would accept a hun- 
 dred guineas.' Thereupon she said she would 
 write to Mr. Trevor at once — and 1 consider the 
 thing done." 
 
 '' I shall be glad if it is," said Melusina ; '^ but 
 when does Mr. Trevor want her?" 
 
 ^' I don't know exactly ; but as I wished to 
 make her going there at all as great a favour as 
 possible, I said, ' that if Mr. Trevor desired to 
 engage Miss i^eville, he must lose no time about 
 it, for I had already had other inquiries about 
 her ; nor could she go to anyone for three 
 months time, as she could not possibly behave 
 unhandsomely to Lady Tanner, who had no inten- 
 tion of parting with her.' In short, I tickled my 
 trout very nicely indeed." 
 
 ^^ So it seems," said Sir Harry, drily. 
 
 '^And it's caught!" cried Georgiana, trium- 
 phantly. 
 
 "Don't reckon your trouts till they are 
 cooked," remarked Sir Harry. 
 
 " But," Georgiana replied, " I tell you the 
 thing is done. If Lizzie had been very poor, 
 and in great want of a situation immediately, 
 and had all the virtues in the world, and all the
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 257 
 
 accomplishments to boot, Mr. Trevor would 
 never have thought of her. But as she is re- 
 siding with Lady Tanner, who has no wish to 
 part with her, and is difficult to get, he'll engage 
 her at once. I wish I had asked Mrs. Aston 
 two hundred a year." 
 
 " Upon my word, G^eorgie, you are coming 
 it strong," said Sir Harry. 
 
 Georgiana was right. In a few days she re- 
 ceived a letter from Mrs. Aston, enclosing an 
 open one from Mr. Trevor to me, in which he 
 offered me tlie situation of governess to his only 
 daughter, whom he stated to be about nine years 
 old, with a salary of one hundred and twenty 
 guineas per annum. He also said that, as a near 
 connection of Lady Beauchamp's, I should be 
 treated like a member of his family, with every 
 possible consideration. 
 
 ** There!" said Georgiana, as she laid the 
 letter before her husband ; '* my trout is caught 
 — I leave it to Lizzie to give him a dressing." 
 
 If the reader wants to know how I came to over- 
 hear this conversation, and suspects me to be a de- 
 scendant of Fine-ear in the fairy-tale, who could 
 hear the plants coming up through the ground, my 
 answer is, that I did not hear it — Georgiana wrote 
 me word what had passed, when she enclosed 
 Mr. Trevor's letter to me ; and I have copied it, 
 to account for my leaving White Cross. 
 
 VOL. I. s
 
 258 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 I carried Mr. Trevor's letter at once to Lady- 
 Tanner, and told her that as it was too advan- 
 tageous an offer to refuse, I hoped she would not 
 feel offended if I gave her notice that I should 
 leave her at the end of three months. 
 
 " I certainly am annoyed. Miss Neville," she 
 replied, " so far as I myself am concerned ; for 
 you know I had no intention of parting with you. 
 But I should think it wrong to prevent your 
 accepting an infinitely more lucrative situation. 
 I will write to Mr. Trevor, and express my per- 
 fect approbation of the manner in which you 
 have fulfilled your duties here." 
 
 *' I am much obliged to your ladyship. May T 
 also make one request ? — Lady Beauchamp, and 
 Miss Melusina Beauchamp, desired that I would 
 ask you not to mention the amount of salary I 
 received here to Mr. Trevor. I should not ask 
 this favour, were I not enjoined to do so;'' and 
 I showed her the passage in my letter. 
 
 " Certainly not," said she, returning the letter 
 to me ; " Lady Beauchamp is perfectly right. 
 There is not the slightest necessity for my inform- 
 ing Mr. Trevor what salary I gave. 1 know you 
 to be a prudent young person, and very properly 
 endeavouring to lay by a provision for old age. 
 I should be sorry to interfere with so laudable 
 an aim. This day three months you are at 
 liberty." She inclined her head in sign of dis-
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 259 
 
 missal, and I thanked her, and withdrew. 
 
 Sooner than I expected, the chain was broken 
 — I was free. 
 
 I wrote to inform my aunt Diana of the 
 good fortune that had befallen me. In her 
 reply she congratulated me upon the prospect 
 of a pleasanter situation and a larger remunera- 
 tion than I had yet had ; and expressed a wish 
 that, if I could do it without inconveniencing 
 Lady Tanner, I should spend a short time at 
 Hilton, and take my aunt Joan's place, who 
 was going her usual round of visits, before I went 
 to Trevor-Court Rectory. She and my aunt 
 Theodosia would have pleasure in seeing me 
 again. 
 
 I did not like asking any favour of Lady 
 Tanner, and I put the letter quietly away in my 
 desk, and said nothing of its contents to anyone. 
 
 But about three weeks afterwards, when I was 
 " enjoying the privilege " of sitting in the draw- 
 ing-room, and listening to Bishop Home upon 
 the Psalms, the butler entered with a silver tray 
 in his hand, on which lay several letters. Two 
 of these he handed to Lady Tanner. 
 
 ^' Shall I stop, mamma dearest, or go on with 
 ray reading ? " asked Miss Tanner. 
 
 She examined the handwriting and seals. 
 
 " Wait, my darling ; perhaps they may require 
 answering by return of post. I rather think they 
 
 s2
 
 260 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 are concerning the young person I wrote to in- 
 quire about as governess." 
 
 Lady Tanner and her daughter never called a 
 governess a young lady ; governesses, ladies- 
 maids, and all such subordinates, were " young 
 persons." 
 
 *' Are they, dear mamma ? " 
 
 *^ Yes, dear Eloise. This is from her late em- 
 ployer, the Honourable Mrs. Trevennan — a most 
 excellent character. Her sole reason for parting 
 with Miss Wroughton was her imperfect acquaint- 
 ance with French and music, which, you know, 
 will be of no consequence here. She states her 
 to possess good manners, and to be a sound 
 English scholar ; and says she is a high-prin- 
 cipled, serious young person, who would esteem 
 it a privilege to live in a family where she could 
 enjoy gospel ministration. Heally, it seems 
 quite providential that I should have required a 
 governess at this time.'' 
 
 *' And when will she be disengaged, dear 
 mother ? " asked Miss Agatha. 
 
 ** Oh, as to that, she is at liberty now. But 
 as she has a home with her father, who is curate 
 of St. Medards, when she is unemployed, she 
 says in her letter, ^ that she would be willing to 
 wait some months to obtain a situation in a 
 family who profess Christ, and where she could 
 have the privilege of religious coriversation.'
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 261 
 
 She says she thinks our morning readings — of 
 which she has heard from Mrs. Trevennan — must 
 be quite delightful ; and observes truly, * that 
 there are few families where she could hope to 
 enjoy so much opportunity of spiritual improve- 
 ment.' Read her letter, Eloise dearest.*' 
 
 Miss Tanner took it, and read it aloud for 
 public benefit. 
 
 " What a very nice letter ! " she said, when 
 she had concluded. 
 
 ^' So respectful to you, mamma, and such a 
 proper sense of her own humble position in life," 
 remarked Miss Lucilla. 
 
 " She is evidently a truly pious person. As 
 you say, dear mamma, it is quite providential 
 that she should be disengaged when you wanted 
 a governess," said Miss Matilda. 
 
 As I did not want to delay their obtaining 
 such a treasure of piety and humility by a single 
 instant, and desired, besides, to visit my aunts, 
 I ventured to say, 
 
 '^ Since Miss Wroughton is at liberty, and 
 could come to you at any time, perhaps your 
 ladyship could dispense with my services at an 
 early period. My aunts are very anxious I 
 should pass a little time with them before I take 
 another situation ; but I refrained from mention- 
 ing their wish until I should know your ladyship 
 had heard of some one to replace me."
 
 262 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 " Your conduct has been very proper, Miss 
 Neville. Of course I could not have permitted 
 you to have left before the expiration of the 
 three months, had I not succeeded in obtaining 
 a governess to suit me. But as I have decided 
 on engaging Miss Wroughton, that alters the 
 matter completely. I will write and inquire 
 when she will be able to come to me, and as soon 
 as her answer arrives you can fix the day of your 
 departure. Serena, my dearest, give me my 
 writing-case." 
 
 Miss Wroughton agreed to come in a fort- 
 night; but as she was to arrive on a Saturday, 
 and my cross-country journey would take two 
 days to accomplish, I settled, to avoid Sunday 
 travelling, that I would leave White Cross the 
 Monday after her arrival. I must confess I was 
 anxious to see this paragon of governesses. 
 
 Meanwhile, I availed myself of one of the 
 half-holidays that remained to call and say good- 
 bye to Mrs. Batt, and Mrs. and Miss Jenkins. 
 
 I found the inmates of the Eectory sad enough. 
 Mrs. Jenkins sat by the fire in her old place ; 
 opposite to her was the empty chair. The poor 
 crippled Geoffrey lay as usual on his sofa by the 
 window, reading. Tears sprung to my eyes as 
 I looked at them both, and thought how soon he 
 would have no sofa to lie on.
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 263 
 
 Harriet was making an inventory of the fur- 
 niture, preparatory to the sale. 
 
 She was doing it with an unmoved counte- 
 nance, as a matter of course. They had all made 
 up their minds to the necessity long since, but I 
 could scarcely restrain myself from sobbing aloud, 
 as I thought of all these familiar objects passing 
 away from them into the hands of strangers. 
 
 I have heard my aunt Joan say she had no 
 sympathy with people who attached themselves 
 to furniture ; she liked persons. To me there is 
 something pleasant and sacred in the well-known 
 aspect of my home. I should not like new fur- 
 niture as well as these tables, and chairs, and 
 sofas, where my husband and I have sat so long, 
 and around which our children played. 
 
 Probably the same associations and feelings 
 aflPected Mrs. Jenkins, but she did not give them 
 vent. 
 
 She sat pale and grave, looking every now and 
 then at the vacant chair. Her manner seemed 
 to say, ^^ I am old, and have but a year or two, 
 at most, to live. The companion and friend of 
 my life is gone from me, and what matter a few 
 comforts more or less for the short time I have 
 to live ? '' 
 
 " Sit down, my dear," she said to me. " I am 
 very glad to see you ; I wanted to see you, to 
 thank you for your gift.''
 
 264 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 " Do not speak of it, dear Mrs. Jenkins. I 
 wish it had been more." 
 
 *'It was much, Elizabeth," she replied — ^^much 
 to us, who are very poor. It does not matter to 
 me, but I grieve for Geoffrey." 
 
 " I shall do, mother, never fear. I shall get 
 one or two young men to come and read with 
 me. I am sure my old Durham masters will re- 
 commend pupils to me. I Ijave not strength to 
 turn schoolmaster, but I could knock Latin and 
 Greek into their heads for two or three hours 
 every day." Then, changing the conversation, 
 he turned to me and said, " I wanted to thank 
 you too. Miss Neville ; your kindness did my 
 mother more good than your gift. It is plea- 
 sant in one's misfortunes to feel that one is not 
 forgotten." 
 
 '' I should have been very ungrateful to have 
 forgotten the kindness your mother and sister 
 showed me, who was an entire stranger to them. 
 Did I not come here to be nursed after my illness, 
 to say nothing of other kindnesses ? " 
 
 ^^ Ay," said Mrs. Jenkins, with a touch of 
 true housekeeping pride, '' and you used to like 
 our wine-jelly, and say it was better than what 
 the housekeeper made at White Cross." 
 
 " So it was," answered I — " much better. I 
 never tasted any so good before." 
 
 *'Ah! my dear, it is not everybody that has
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 265 
 
 that receipt. I never would give it — but I will 
 give it you before I go away. Perhaps you may 
 marry, and have a house of your own some day, 
 and then it will be useful to you. I was always 
 celebrated for that jelly — and when you make it, 
 you will think of me." 
 
 Harriet put down her inventory, and came and 
 sat by me. ^^You were not the only Good 
 Samaritan, Lizzy. Doctor Batt refused to send 
 in his bill, and he gave mamma ten pounds, tell- 
 ing her he should consider himself her landlord 
 for two years. AVas it not noble in him ? " 
 
 ^'Yery," I replied — '^ for he has a large family ; 
 but he has been your doctor long, and I daresay 
 had pleasure in proving his regard for you all." 
 
 " I think so," said Mrs. Jenkins. '' Dr. Batt 
 is a good man, and God will repay him. There 
 is a blessing upon those who visit the fatherless 
 and widow in their aflSiction, and keep themselves 
 unspotted from the world. I believe Dr. Batt 
 does both, my dear ; I think he is more truly 
 religious than your pious Tanners." 
 
 '* I think so too," said I, abruptly. In my 
 heart I thought of the Pharisee who passed by 
 the wounded man, but I would not speak ill of 
 my employers. 
 
 Geoffrey put his hand upon the bible that lay 
 beside him, and read aloud the parable of Him 
 " who fell among thieves, who stripped him of
 
 266 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 his raiment, and wounded him, leaving him half 
 dead/' " Confess, Miss Neville," said he, '' that 
 you were thinking of the Pharisee and Levite in 
 that parable ? My father held this living for 
 fifty years, and knew Sir James Tanner as a boy 
 — yet in our affliction he never came forward to 
 help us." 
 
 '^ We had no claim on him, my dear," said the 
 mother. " We were never very intimate ; and 
 in former times your brothers annoyed him by 
 killing his game." 
 
 "That is no excuse for him," returned 
 Geoffrey; ''my brothers were headstrong boys, 
 whose conduct my father never sanctioned. You 
 have often been guests at his table since then. 
 Had you not been, you would not have met Miss 
 Neville. And I think that the aged widow of 
 an old clergyman, whom they visited, had, in 
 her extreme need, a strong claim upon the 
 benevolence of a wealthy family living close to 
 her. Had they chosen, they could have assisted 
 my mother greatly. They passed by on the 
 other side. They have not even called to ex- 
 press their sympathy in her bereavement." 
 
 I had not a word of exculpation to offer. I 
 knew there were alms-houses for the widows of 
 clergymen — charities which granted them small 
 pensions — with all of which the influence of a 
 man in Sir James Tanner's position would have
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 267 
 
 been great. I knew they could well have afforded 
 to give help themselves. I held my peace. They 
 had passed by on the other side. 
 
 The cat which had been lying on the hearth- 
 rug now suddenly jumped into the vacant chair. 
 Mrs. Jenkins quietly got up and took her off. 
 '^ Not there, pussy," said she, reseating herself, 
 with the animal on her lap. " We are going to 
 take Tabby o' Nigger with us. Miss Neville ; she 
 will be a remembrance of our home. We shall 
 be lonely sometimes, Geoffrey and I, and her 
 gambols will amuse us." 
 
 " Mamma will have it so," said Harriet, look- 
 ing at me. " I wanted to break my marriage 
 off, and go with them to Durham, but neither 
 of them would hear of it." 
 
 ^^ To be sure not," answered Mrs. Jenkins. 
 ^' I am seventy-two ; I have not long to live. 
 It is an unspeakable comfort to me to know that 
 Harriet will not be left unprotected, but that 
 she has a protector and friend. That thought 
 was the only thing that gave my poor husband 
 any earthly comfort on his death-bed. It would 
 break my heart entirely if Harriet broke off her 
 marriage." 
 
 The old lady began to cry. I saw at once 
 that Harriet had no voice in the matter. 
 
 ** You see, Lizzie," said she, " it is not a love- 
 match on either side. I am not young; Mr.
 
 268 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 Robson is a widower. He wanted a kindly 
 woman, who would be a mother to his little girl. 
 He is a sensible, good man. I had no other 
 attachment ; and when he asked me to be his 
 wife, I did not foresee all that has happened. I 
 hoped that I should have a little money, and 
 Mamma also ; and we agreed that she and 
 Geoffrey should reside with us. When poor Papa 
 lost all his savings, I wrote and told Mr. Robson 
 of our misfortune, and said that I thought, under 
 the circumstances, our marriage had better not 
 take place. He came down to the Rectory at 
 once, with the letter in his hand, and told my 
 father and mother that my want of all means of 
 subsistence rendered it more necessary that I 
 should accept the home and protection he could 
 offer me. They thought his conduct so disin- 
 terested that they became still more anxious for 
 the match ; and, to please my mother, I am to 
 be married as soon as I have settled her and 
 Geoffrey in their new home." 
 
 I told them that I also was going to leave 
 White Cross, and then I bade them farewell. 
 
 In those days letters were expensive ; there- 
 fore I kept up no correspondence with the 
 Jenkins after I quitted the Priory. They did 
 not ask me to write to them, and we never met 
 again. But I heard that, as I had foreseen, the 
 privation of all the comforts they had been used
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 269 
 
 to shortened the life of the old mother and her 
 crippled son. Benjamin Jenkins behaved kindly 
 and generously — he allowed his mother a hun- 
 dred a year as soon as he heard of his father's 
 death and the family misfortunes. But it came 
 too late ; after exposure to draught, cold, and 
 damp — after hard living and hard fare had 
 prepared their weak bodies for death. Geoffrey 
 toiled nobly and manfully to support his mother, 
 by giving a few lessons to some of the neigh- 
 bouring gentlemen's sons in Greek, Latin, and 
 mathematics. He had taken a '* double first" at 
 Oxford, and was well recommended ; and they 
 did not mind the fact that he lived in a brick- 
 floored cottage. Neither he nor his mother 
 would hear of taking a better one, the rent of 
 which, they said, they might never be able to 
 pay, since their very subsistence depended upon 
 the chance gifts of friends, and what Geoffrey 
 earned by taking pupils — a source of income 
 that his feeble and precarious health rendered 
 very uncertain. He lingered two years. Long 
 enough to suffer much, in all ways ; and long 
 enough to know that Ben would provide for his 
 mother. The remittance of fifty pounds, which 
 he sent instantly on hearing of his father's death, 
 served to provide a few comforts for Geoffrey's 
 last illness, and to bury him. Harriet was with 
 him in his supreme hour.
 
 270 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 The last day he had lain quiet for a long 
 time, with his eyes closed, as if in sleep. 
 
 He opened them, gazed on the bare white- 
 washed walls, and the poor furniture, and then 
 on his mother's wan form. He looked long at 
 her, and sighed, then he pressed Harriet's hand, 
 and said with a smile, " It is all over now — 
 there is no more sorrow ! " turned his face to the 
 wall, and died. After the funeral was over 
 Harriet took her mother home. But for the 
 fifty pounds Ben had promised to send the follow- 
 ing half-year, the independent-spirited old wo- 
 man would not have brooked the idea of being a 
 burden upon her poor son-in-law ; ^' he had done 
 enough," she said, " in taking Harriet as it 
 was." 
 
 One morning Harriet carried her breakfast to 
 her in bed, where she usually took it, and found 
 her dead. She had died in sleep. 
 
 When I heard this sad story of my former 
 friendly acquaintance, I could not forbear think- 
 ing that a small subscription, such as the Miss 
 Tanners were perpetually raising for rebuilding 
 churches, or establishing schools, would have 
 saved all this pain and suffering. As Miss Lu- 
 cilla had said they must — ^' they had got on 
 somehow," but it had cost them their lives. I 
 could not think that the man with ten thousand 
 a-year was justified in withholding help from
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 271 
 
 his necessitous brethren, any more than Dives in 
 our Lord's parable. 
 
 I heard all these particulars from Mrs. Batt, 
 with whom Harriet corresponded, and through 
 whom I had more than once sent my mite. I 
 have related the fate of the Jenkins family 
 now, instead of in the proper time and place, 
 because, as I never saw any of them again, they 
 ceased in any way to be connected with my own 
 history.
 
 272 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 On ray return from the Rectory I found Miss 
 Wroughton had arrived. It is said few people 
 like those who are to succeed them in office. My 
 future successor did not please me. She was 
 an insignificant-looking woman, of about eight 
 and twenty years of age. Her features were 
 large and coarse ; and she had oily-black hair, 
 braided above a forehead expressive of low 
 cunning. Every feature had a demure, sancti- 
 fied look, and the sly small black eyes seldom 
 looked direct at you. There was a cringing ob- 
 sequiousness in her manner to Lady Tanner and 
 her elder daughters, that disgusted me. She 
 seemed from her conversation to value only two 
 things in the world — great people, and what 
 she called ^' religion." Her language was good, 
 her voice well-toned, yet she struck me as being 
 underbred and vulgar. 
 
 On Sunday we all walked together to church,
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 273 
 
 and she edified Miss Agatha and myself by com- 
 plaining of the great privation she had un- 
 dergone in a former situation, from having to 
 ^* sit under a minister who did not preach pure 
 gospel." 
 
 Had I never mixed among the class of per- 
 sons whom sinners like myself denominate ^' the 
 saintly," I should have been at a loss to under- 
 stand her, and supposed that he interpolated 
 matter of his own with the text of the Bible, or 
 chose the subject of his discourse from the Tal- 
 mud or Koran ; as it was, I understood her to 
 mean that he did not hold precisely the same 
 views as herself; and, in particular, that he in- 
 sisted upon self-denial, just dealing in word and 
 deed, sympathy for others, and liberality in 
 alms-giving — in all which he closely followed his 
 model, Christ. 
 
 Your saints like generalities, touching on no 
 peculiar sin, and dwelling everlastingly upon 
 faith, as the one thing needful ; far better than 
 discourses inculcating Christian virtues, in which 
 their consciences tell them they are terribly de- 
 ficient. 
 
 Miss Vu'oughton said that after a few months 
 she could endure such soul-famishing no longer — 
 and therefote wrote to consult Lady Daventry — 
 ^^who," she said, "is a most pious woman, and 
 takes an interest even in so humble a person as 
 
 YOL. I. T
 
 274 A FAMILY HISTORr. 
 
 myself — whether it would not be my duty to 
 leave a situation where I could not sit under a 
 gospel minister ? Her ladyship was kind 
 enough to interest herself in procuring me an- 
 other ; and it was through her recommendation 
 I went to Mrs. Trevennan." 
 
 *^ You were quite right/' said Miss Agatha, 
 gravely, *' to prefer your spiritual improvement 
 to every worldly consideration of profit ; and you 
 see you were not allowed to suffer from doing right 
 — for your leaving that situation, from such right 
 motives, led eventually to your coming here." 
 
 " For which I can never be sufficiently thank- 
 ful,'' said Miss Wroughton. ^' Dear Miss Agatha, 
 I do indeed feel it a privilege to live in a family 
 who seek after righteousness." 
 
 More of the conversation I did not hear, for I 
 walked on, and joined two of my pupils. I shall 
 merely, therefore, observe, eii passant, that I 
 knew, on good authority, that, at the Hemings', 
 Miss Wroughton had a very small salary and an 
 uncomfortable home, and therefore she had not 
 any very great merit in resigning that situation. 
 The basing her reason for quitting it on the want 
 of gospel ministry, Avas just one of the hypocritical 
 manoeuvres common to her sect. She knew that 
 by doing so she would bind Lady Daventry to 
 exert herself to procure a better for this "suf- 
 ferer for righteousness's sake."
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 275 
 
 Knowing all this, I had not patience to listen. 
 The remainder of the day passed in discussing 
 the two sermons we had heard, and reading good 
 hooks ; and the more I heard of Miss Wrough- 
 ton's opinions and conversation, the more I felt 
 disposed to agree with the Tanners and herself, 
 that her " coming to White Cross was quite a 
 providential dispensation." They evidently con- 
 sidered that they had made a good exchange in 
 replacing me by so pious a young person. 
 
 But we parted in the most friendly manner. 
 Lady Tanner told me she should always be wil- 
 ling to bear testimony to the faithfulness with 
 which I had fulfilled my duties, and wished me 
 well; Miss Tanner, Miss Matilda Tanner, and 
 Miss Lucilla said the same. Miss Agatha — who, 
 being a year younger than myself, had thought 
 it incumbent upon her to be particularly inter- 
 ested in my mental and religious improvement 
 — expressed a wish to hear occasionally — from 
 time to time — of my welfare ; " hoped that, 
 as years passed on, I should think less of this 
 life, and more of eternity ; " and presented me 
 with a volume of sermons, from '^ the perusal of 
 which," she assured me, ^^ I could not fail to 
 derive the greatest benefit, as they showed so 
 beautifully the utter nothingness of the fleeting 
 riches and pleasures of this world." 
 
 I could not help thinking that everyone of the 
 
 t2
 
 276 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 Tanners was far more worldly than I was my- 
 self; but I make it a rule never to reject kind- 
 ness. I saw Miss Agatha was sincere in her 
 good wishes, and therefore I thanked her for her 
 gift, and promised I would write to her when I 
 was fairly settled in my new situation. 
 
 ^' Enfin vous vous en allez, et moi j'y reste 
 dans cette maudite maison. Vous etiez triste 
 comme toutes les Anglaises, mais, pour cette 
 demoiselle Ro — ton, elle m'ennuie a mourir. 
 Mademoiselle Neville, portez vous bien, et que 
 la maison ou vous devez entrer, soit plus gaie 
 que celle-ci," was the adieu of the head-governess. 
 
 I had always been on good terms with Ma- 
 dame St. Croix. I expected she would at least 
 have expressed regret at my departure, and felt 
 rather hurt at so cold a farewell. 
 
 We had, while together, mutually endeavoured 
 to improve each other. I had given her lessons 
 in English, to prepare her for teaching it in 
 Paris ; she had instructed me in French and 
 music. After three years of daily intercourse and 
 exchange of good offices, I felt angry that she 
 should part from me as if I had been a three- 
 days' acquaintance. It was folly ; I might as 
 well have expected warmth from dead touch- 
 wood — which, indeed, glows brightly in the dark, 
 but sends out no heat — as from a cold, selfish 
 heart.
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 277 
 
 My pupils shook hands with me, and just 
 touched my cheek. They also preferred Miss 
 Wroughton.
 
 278 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 On arriving at Hilton I found my dear old aunts 
 in good health, and they seemed pleased to see 
 me again. 
 
 The three years that had elapsed had left few- 
 traces upon either. They appeared to me to 
 resemble those fine old ruins, over which increas- 
 ing age sheds a tenderer, mellower charm. The 
 perfect building could scarcely have been more 
 beautiful than it is in its decay — festooned by 
 ivy, tapestried by moss and pellitory, crowned 
 with balmy-scented wall-flowers, enriched in 
 colouring even by the very time-stains, which 
 tell of years and hardships. 
 
 My aunt Joan was absent. There was nothing 
 to damp my pleasure in revisiting my old home. 
 
 I went with aunt Theodosia to call on all my 
 former village friends, from the Beauchamps 
 down to the Jones — none of them had forgotten 
 me ; and I had real pleasure in seeing those who
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 279 
 
 had been the kind friends of my childhood once 
 more. 
 
 We resumed, too, our former habit of taking 
 long country strolls. Though she was seventy, 
 my aunt Theodosia had neither lost her love of 
 nature nor her bodily activity. 
 
 In these walks I learnt more of the family 
 history than I had ever known before. Formerly 
 I was considered a child, and admitted only to 
 the outer court of the temple ; now the sanctu- 
 ary and its mysteries were revealed to me. When 
 a child I had felt only fear, and of late years 
 love ; I now learned to feel reverence. 
 
 I one day asked my aunt Theodosia how it 
 happened that so beautiful a woman as my aunt 
 Diana had never married. 
 
 *' Your grandfather, my dear," she replied, 
 ^^ married twice. Diana and I were girls of 
 eleven when he brought home his second wife. 
 We dreaded her coming above all things ; but 
 she proved a kind and gentle mother to us. 
 
 " We were growing up wild, uneducated, ill- 
 mannered girls ; we owe her everything. 
 
 '' She bore my father many children ; but none 
 lived for a long time. The loss of her babies, 
 and what she underwent in her confinements, 
 weakened our dear mother's health greatly ; and 
 when your father was born and thrived, she 
 used to say she feared she should never live to
 
 280 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 see him grown up, and that one of us must 
 be a mother to him. I became engaged to be 
 married a short time before your aunt Joan's 
 birth. 
 
 ^' Before my mother had recovered from this 
 last confinement my poor ftither was one day 
 brought home a corpse. Unhappily, my mother 
 was sitting at the window, and saw the lifeless 
 body of her husband carried to the house — she 
 rushed downstairs and met it in the hall — the 
 shock killed her. 
 
 " But before she died she made your aunt 
 Diana promise to take charge of her children. 
 Diana hides very violent feelings under that cold, 
 stern manner ; and we both passionately loved 
 our gentle mother. She threw herself on her 
 knees by the bedside, and solemnly vowed before 
 God to be a parent to them. She has nobly 
 kept her vow. 
 
 " I daresay, Lizzie, that when you were a 
 child you used to think her harsh and stern. 
 She is. She ruthlessly and pitilessly crushed 
 down her own hopes, and sacrificed the happi- 
 ness of her life to a sense of duty ; and then a 
 kind of frost seemed to come over her manners. 
 She grew cold and stern. I suppose, in the 
 endeavour to curb that passionate heart." 
 
 " Was she engaged too, then ?" I asked. 
 
 ** Not engaged, but attached. She had been
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 281 
 
 SO for years. After my father's death the man 
 she loved asked her to be his wife. She said 
 she would, on one condition — that his house 
 should be a home for her little brother and 
 sister so long as they wanted one — till your 
 father was old enough to enter a profession, and 
 till Joan married. Mr. Vavasour refused. He 
 said that he wished to marry her, not her whole 
 family ; and suggested that her step-mother's 
 children had better be sent to their own rela- 
 tions. Diana asked what relations were so near 
 as a sister ? * A half-sister,' said he. * Their 
 mother was a luhole mother to me,' said Diana, 
 ' and I will be a whole sister to them. I promised 
 my dear mother, on her death-bed, to be a parent 
 to them, and I will keep my word.' He said, 
 * she could not love him much, if she would give 
 him up, sooner than her half-brother and sister.' 
 And they parted in anger. 
 
 ** Afterwards he repented, and wrote to say 
 she should have her way ; but she had taken 
 her determination. She said he had shown what 
 his true character was ; and if she married him 
 he would, probably, treat the children unkindly. 
 She wrote him her decision, and refused to have 
 any further correspondence with him. This 
 great grief altered her completely. What grieved 
 her most was her disappointment in Mr. Vava- 
 sour's character. She had looked up to him as
 
 282 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 SO noble-minded and good ; and now she despised 
 him, for he was very rich, and the support of 
 two children could have been no burden to him. 
 She hardened herself against her own sorrow, 
 and thus she grew hard to others. She was 
 stern and harsh even with the children for whom 
 she had sacrificed so much. Neither your 
 father nor your aunt Joan had a happy childhood. 
 I am sure Joan did not love her then ; but when 
 she became old enough to know all her sister 
 had given up for her sake and Robert's, then 
 love came. Gratitude attached her strongly to 
 your aunt Diana, and she determined to de- 
 vote her life to repaying her for what she had 
 suffered. 
 
 " Your father chose his profession and left us. 
 Diana centred her whole love upon Joan. She 
 may be said almost to worship the very ground 
 she treads on. What Joan says or does must be 
 right. The most perfect conudence has reigned 
 between them ever since Joan grew up and 
 knew the history of the past. Diana, too, is 
 very different to what she was when she was 
 thirty. She is one of those few characters who, 
 like strong wine, improve by age. Every year 
 softens and refines her." 
 
 This little narrative gave me much to think 
 of. I had long known my aunt Theodosia's 
 history. She was engaged to be married, the
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 283 
 
 wedding-clothes were made, the day fixed. The 
 intended bridegroom took a journey on important 
 business, caught a fever, and was dead and 
 buried before she even heard of his illness. She 
 never recovered her spirits, or went into the 
 world again, but wore black for him to her 
 dying day. 
 
 I had heard the tale again and again from 
 my aunt Joan, who scorned her for still lament- 
 ing, in her old age, the lover of her youth ; and 
 said it was deplorable weakness for any one so 
 to waste life in regrets. For my part, I had 
 always tenderly loved my gentle, pensive aunt — 
 perhaps the more for this tinge of romance in 
 her disposition. A love story always interests 
 the young. Now I was older I felt more dis- 
 posed to agree with my aunt Joan. It was a 
 heavy afHiction, but it came direct from the 
 hand of God. There was no bitterness in it, as 
 there is when the trust and confidence of years 
 is broken up, and the reed we have leaned 
 upon snaps and pierces — oh! not our hand! 
 hut our heart's core, when the prop and stay of 
 our life suddenly gives way. To the one, me- 
 mory can look back athwart the wastes of life, 
 as to a green and grassy spot beside a clear 
 stream, enamelled by bright, fragrant scented 
 flowers, overshadowed by stately trees, in whose 
 branches birds sang, as to us on earth they will
 
 284 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 never sing again ; for we hear them no more 
 with the young joyful heart. Over the other a 
 scorching fire seems to have passed, leaving 
 nothing but blackness and darkness behind it ; 
 and yet — there also, after long years, grass and 
 sweet-scented flowers spring up. I said to my- 
 self, no grief is immortal. It is better to bury 
 one's dead, as Jacob did on the way to Ephrath, 
 and to journey on. 
 
 It was a pleasant meeting that I had with 
 young Lady Beauchamp. Tears came into my 
 eyes when I folded her in my arms. I under- 
 stood then something of the love my aunt 
 Diana felt for my aunt Joan. I looked upon 
 Georgiana's good humour, pleasant manners, 
 and accomplishments as in part my work; I had 
 laid the foundation for all her present happiness. 
 I even took credit to myself for her beauty. Who 
 ever thought or called her handsome before I 
 went to Weston ? I held her off at arm's length, 
 and said I must admire her. She laughed, and 
 told me "I might admire her as much as I 
 chose.'' 
 
 *^ But I do not say so," said Melusina; "I 
 think it high time you turned from her to an 
 older friend still." 
 
 *' Forgive me, Melusina," I answered, " I 
 have seen you and Anne often lately, but you 
 know it i| more than three years since I saw
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 285 
 
 Georgiana. At first sight I should hardly 
 have known Georgiana Stanley in this dashing 
 lady ; now I look at her, it is the old face still." 
 
 ^^ See," said Georgiana, with mock anger, 
 '^ she has not forgotten all my misdeeds — how I 
 went about with unkempt hair, and broken 
 sandals, and sometimes a torn frock to boot : 
 she tells me to my face she did not think that 
 grim-looking grub would ever have unfolded to 
 be such a gay-painted butterfly. Tell me, Mrs. 
 Neville, did not Lizzie give a very bad account 
 of me ?" 
 
 *' Not very, Lady Beauchamp," said my aunt, 
 putting on her spectacles to gaze on the hand- 
 some young woman, who had playfully knelt 
 down before her on her footstool — " not very ; 
 she said you were a little unmanageable, that 
 was all. Most girls are; and, Georgie, I do 
 not love your yea-nay young ladies. It takes 
 some spirit to battle with the storms of life ; 
 and they are seldom capable of much love or 
 much endeavour. Lizzie had plenty of mettle 
 herself. My dear, you have a good and bonnie 
 face ; an old woman gives you her blessing." 
 
 She laid her hand upon the young wife's 
 head, who bent it with graceful reverence, and, 
 rising up, gave her an affectionate kiss. 
 
 Afterwards, to please her, she sat down to 
 the piano, and sang some of her finest airs.
 
 286 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 " I like your Georgiana, Lizzie,'^ said aunt 
 Diana, after the Beauchamp party had departed ; 
 " she is handsome — almost beautiful. She has 
 a good heart. She can sit down as willingly to 
 sing for an old woman of eighty as for a crowd 
 of admirers ; she has a reverence for age. She 
 will make Sir Harry a good wife, and her chil- 
 dren will rise up and call her blessed." 
 
 Always prompt in seeing what would benefit 
 others, and zealous in doing kindness, Georgiana 
 Beauchamp thought it would serve my interests, 
 and place me on higher ground with the Trevors, 
 if she invited them to meet me at Beauchamp 
 Abbey, and she sent me an invitation. 
 
 I was a good deal disappointed in Mr. Trevor. 
 From his conduct in regard to my salary, I had 
 judged him to be liberal — I now found him to 
 be merely ostentatious. He gave the twenty 
 guineas, which were not pressed for — not to the 
 deserving governess, but to Lady Beauchamp's 
 relation ; not because he was really generous, 
 but because he wished her to think him so. 
 
 Like most north-country men, he was very 
 tall — I should think six feet two in height. He 
 bad been very handsome ; he had a fine figure 
 still. His features were cast in the Norman 
 type — that is to say, strongly aquiline; and he 
 had great flashing eagle eyes beneath his broad 
 and remarkably arched eyebrows. His counte-
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 287 
 
 nance did not please me. It struck me as con- 
 veying a feeling of intense haughtiness, mingled 
 with cunning. He was not a man in whom I 
 should have put implicit trust, like Mr. Stanley 
 or Sir Harry Beauchamp. 
 
 He had the graceful ease of movement which 
 marks the gentleman, was evidently a man of 
 sense and observation, and well-read ; had tra- 
 velled much, and reflected upon what he had 
 seen, and his conversation was at once instruc- 
 tive and amusing ; but all these good qualities 
 were marred and spoiled by a pompous ostentation 
 of manner, an evident desire to be thought much 
 of, which struck me as singular in a person of 
 his birth and station. 
 
 He reminded me — in the way he boasted of 
 the schools he had built for his poor, the charities 
 he had established in his parish, his desire to 
 do good, his Hebrew and Biblical researches, 
 the sermons he had written, and the religious 
 treatises he had published — of nothing so much 
 as a draper shewing off his goods. 
 
 " Do look at that shawl, ma'am — hold it up to 
 the light, it will bear examination ; admire the 
 beauty of the design, the delicacy of the work- 
 manship ; that satin I can sell you for less than 
 it cost ; it is an unequalled piece of goods ; look 
 at the texture, you can tumble it up like u 
 pocket-handkerchief, yet it will not crease. No
 
 288 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 Genoa velvet ever yet made surpasses this one, 
 in softness and richness of colour," — as if he 
 doubted whether the articles were of a quality 
 to recommend themselves. 
 
 Other men would have spoken of what they 
 had done, and were doing, in the natural course 
 of conversation ; but Mr. Trevor's self-commen- 
 dation — for I can call it nothing else — did 
 not arise naturally from the subjects in hand ; 
 he forced and turned the conversation perpe- 
 tually, to shew how good, how clever, and how 
 much to be esteemed and admired he was. 
 
 He was so perpetually calling every one's at- 
 tention to his piety and goodness, that I set him 
 down internally as having neither. 
 
 Georgiana and Melusina came to the same 
 conclusion. 
 
 ^* I hate that pompous, boasting man ! '^ was 
 their first exclamation when we talked the Tre- 
 vors over on the evening of their arrival in Lady 
 Beauchamp's dressing-room, as we curled our 
 hair before going to bed — that favourite time 
 for telling secrets and retailing scandal. 
 
 Mrs. Trevor we all liked ; she was very lady- 
 like, very pleasing and pretty still ; but she, too, 
 had a peculiarity. Why was Mr. Trevor's wife 
 so very humble, so fearful to offend, so timidly 
 anxious to agree with every one ? We attributed 
 it to shyness — a shyness that was absolutely
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 289 
 
 painful to witness, and which made her blush 
 and tremble like a girl, and apparently drew on 
 her the displeasure of her ostentatious husband. 
 
 The day after their arrival, '^ the dressed day" 
 of Yorkshire visiting, there was a large party at 
 dinner. Some of the guests had lately returned 
 from a tour in Italy, and much of the conver- 
 sation turned upon foreign scenes and manners. 
 "\\^hy did Mrs. Trevor first turn pale, and then 
 colour up to the temples, when Sir Harry ad- 
 dressed this simple question to her : 
 
 '' Were you ever at the Baths of Lucca, Mrs. 
 Trevor ? " 
 
 I was sitting close beside her, and turning, as 
 Sir Harry spoke, I saw her absolutely tremble with 
 agitation, and I pitied the intense shyness which 
 made it seem as painful to her to be addressed from 
 the bottom of the long table, as to a young girl 
 just come out, who expected that the sound of 
 her name would make everybody look up from 
 their plates, and stare at her. It did, in fact, 
 for she hesitated so long, that Sir Harry repeated 
 his question. When she saw all eyes upon her, 
 she became still more confused, and was only 
 recalled to herself by Mr. Trevor's measured 
 accents : 
 
 *' Sibylla, my dear, did you not hear Sir 
 Harry's questions ? " 
 
 Why — I cannot say — but it struck me there 
 
 VOL. I. U
 
 90 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 was a warning in these simple words, or rather 
 in their tone. 
 
 She replied, in a tremulous voice, " I — I think 
 I have been there. I was very young when I 
 left Italy — I forget all about it." 
 
 *^ Then you must go there again, to refresh 
 your memory," said Sir Harry, who, occupied in 
 carving a spring chicken, did not perceive her 
 emotion ; '' Georgiana and I think of taking a 
 tour there this autumn — perhaps we may meet 
 
 you." 
 
 ^' I am afraid not," replied the sonorous voice 
 of the Rector of Trevor-Court ; '' we clergymen 
 are too closely tied to our cures to have time 
 for such indulgences, otherwise few things would 
 give me greater pleasure. I went * the grand 
 tour,' as our forefathers called it, before I was 
 ordained. Since I married, and settled down at 
 Trevor-Court, I have never been absent for more 
 than a few weeks at a time. I deem it a duty 
 to devote my life to the profession I have 
 chosen — my days are not my own, to spend in 
 amusement, however innocent, or I should 
 greatly enjoy another trip to the continent. By 
 the way, what do you think of continental politics 
 just now. Sir Harry ? " 
 
 After fox-hunting, politics appear to me to be 
 the most engrossing of subjects to country gen- 
 tlemen. I had heard Sir Harry in former days
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 201 
 
 talk on the first subject with unabated interest 
 for a whole evening; he now plunged into a dis- 
 cussion, in which all the gentlemen present 
 joincil, and in which I shall not attempt to fol- 
 low him. 
 
 In person Mrs. Trevor was, as is usual, the 
 reverse of her lord. He was tall, she was little ; 
 he w^as dark, she was dazzlingly fair. Her 
 features were small, regular, and delicate — too 
 delicate for robust health; she was not thin, but 
 her face had a sharpness of outline which was 
 not a sign of health. Her colour went and came 
 continually ; the least sound made her start ; the 
 opening of a door suddenly threw her into a 
 tremor ; if any one addressed her unexpectedly, 
 she trembled and turned pale. In addressing 
 people she generally avoided looking at them ; 
 when you did encounter her glances there was 
 a furtive, fearful look in those soft blue eyes, 
 that I never saw in any human being before. 
 Her manner was subdued and humble — she 
 seemed hardly to dare to express an opinion of 
 her own — and her very voice had an imploring 
 accent, as if she were entreating you not to be 
 harsh with her. 
 
 Strangers seemed to be her especial dread. I 
 shall never forget the startled look in her eyes, 
 the deathdike paleness that replaced her usual 
 delicate and varying colour, when Harrison 
 
 u2
 
 292 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 threw open the library door one morning, and 
 announced " Lord and Lady Fitz- Walter." 
 
 Eecovering herself as if by an effort, she 
 glanced hurriedly and fearfully round, as if medi- 
 tating an escape from the room ; a violent and 
 evidently painful blush suffused her face, her 
 mouth twitched nervously, her hands shook so 
 much that she dropped the needle from her work, 
 and had to stop and look for it. 
 
 ^^ What have you lost, SibyUa? Your needle ? 
 — let me help you," said Mr. Trevor, in the low, 
 l)eculiar, warning tone I had once before re- 
 marked, as he stooped and looked for the miss- 
 ing needle. 
 
 Thus put on her guard, Mrs. Trevor endea- 
 voured to compose herself, and remained qiuetly 
 seated. I am sure she had been intending to 
 leave the drawing-room when her husband 
 spoke. 
 
 " I think I had the pleasure of meeting you 
 in Italy Mrs. Trevor," said Lady Fitz- Walter. 
 
 *' Hardly, I think," replied the Hector, inter- 
 posing. ^' It must have been the wife of my 
 eldest brother, Mrs. Trevor of Trevor-Court; 
 we poor country parsons have not the means, 
 nor can we conscientiously spend our time in a 
 foreign country. I have been a fixture ever 
 since my marriage ; but my brother and his wife 
 are great travellers." ^
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 293 
 
 " Ah ! then it must have been them that I 
 met. She was a Miss Needham, I remember/' 
 said Lady Fitz-Walter — who had in truth no 
 very definite recollections on the subject, and only 
 meant to do the civil, and have something to 
 say to Mrs. Trevor. 
 
 *' She was," answered the Eector. 
 
 *^ I hope she is quite well." 
 
 *' Quite, I thank you. She and my brother 
 are now at Rome." Soon afterwards the Fitz- 
 Walters took their leave, and the expression of 
 relief that came over Mrs. Trevor's countenance 
 was remarkable. It struck us all. 
 
 The Trevors stayed a week at Beauchamp 
 Abbey, during which time Georgian a one day 
 drove them over to Hilton, to introduce them to 
 my relatives. Melusina and I accompanied 
 thera. It was good policy. No one could 
 avoid being impressed with respect by the vener- 
 able appearance of my aunt Diana, or fail to be 
 attracted by the subdued pensive manners of 
 my gentle aunt Theodosia. Gentlewoman was 
 stamped upon both of them. It was evident at 
 the first glance that they had passed their lives 
 in good society. 
 
 Besides this, their house was large and hand- 
 som.e, their drawing-room lofty and spacious ; 
 and though the furniture was neither new 
 fashioned, nor very comfortable-looking — though
 
 294 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 tlie whole room wanted that air of luxury which 
 belongs to this age — there were no signs of 
 poverty ahout it, but rather the reverse. Costly 
 Indian cabinets, huge China jars and monsters, 
 and various other heirlooms, were ranged, with 
 their usual precision, on the top of the long low 
 bookcases, which ran along two sides of the 
 room, and filled the recesses of two of the 
 windows. Mr. Trevor was a connoisseur in old 
 china, and he won my aunt Theodosia's heart 
 by admiring a thick, hideous, huge saucer, with 
 a blue mare and foal upon it, which was the 
 treasure of her collection, and my especial aver- 
 sion, though I never dared say so. He was 
 enraptured with an invaluable teapot, that looked 
 as if it was made of sandstone, daubed over with 
 round spots of red paint ; and went into ecstasies 
 at the sight of two dragons, of the true, rare, and 
 peculiar Chinese green. 
 
 He won my good old aunt's heart so com- 
 pletely, she actually presented him with a very 
 curious-shaped cup and saucer, certainly never 
 meant to drink out of — which he received with 
 great gratitude, and assured her should have an 
 honourable place in his collection. 
 
 When luncheon was served, Mr. Trevor did 
 not forget to notice the antique silver goblets, 
 hiinded on an antique silver waiter by the butler ; 
 nor the valuable old-fashioned cut-glass water-jug.
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 295 
 
 with a rose on one side and a canary bird on the 
 other ; nor the silver-hafted knives, with the 
 crest of Sir Henry Beaucharnp, my great-grand- 
 father, upon them. I heard him say afterwards 
 to Lady Beauchamp, in a tone of voice not meant 
 for my ears, '' I wonder, Lady Beauchamp, why 
 Miss Neville goes out as a governess at alL 
 There are no signs of poverty about her aunts' 
 establishment ; everything, though stiff and old- 
 fashioned, was in very good style." 
 
 ^' It is not from poverty, Mr. Trevor," replied 
 Melusina. *' I have known the Nevilles, who are 
 our relations, from my childhood. I often stay 
 there. Go when you will, you will always find 
 everything as you saw it to-day ; there is no 
 dressing for visitors. They keep an establish- 
 ment of servants, and live with every possible 
 comfort. But Mrs. Neville is rather strict and 
 stern, though her manners soften every year as 
 she gets older ; and Miss Neville — Joan — whom 
 you have not seen, is a clever, agreeable woman, 
 but of a very arbitrary disposition. They kept 
 Lizzie too close, allowed her no pleasures, dressed 
 her in a way that made her a public laughing- 
 stock, by way of humbling her pride — and, in 
 short, drew the cord too tight and snapped the 
 bow." 
 
 " A common result," observed Mr. Trevor. 
 
 " And so," said Lady Beauchamp, ^^ Lizzie
 
 296 A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 says sBe prefers earning an independence for her- 
 self. She loves her old aunts dearly, but she 
 does not like to reside constantly with them." 
 
 " I can fancy that/' said Mr. Trevor ; ^' most 
 single women are rather captious and difficult to 
 please. I think she judged rightly.'' 
 
 Mr. Trevor, like most of his sex, hated old 
 maids, and never lost an opportunity of inveigh- 
 ing against them. 
 
 '* You must make an exception in favour of 
 aunt Theodosia," remarked Melusina ; '^ she is 
 the gentlest of human beings. Poor thing ! she 
 was about to be married, and the young man was 
 taken suddenly ill, and died. Aunt Theodosia 
 wore widow's mourning for him ; and, as you see, 
 she is in black to this day, and she would never 
 listen to any other lover." 
 
 *^ I honour her ! " exclaimed Mr. Trevor, ex- 
 amining his cup and saucer critically ; " but why 
 do you call her your aunt ? Is she so ? " 
 
 "Not really — her kindly manners have won 
 her that appellation. All the children in the 
 neighbourhood call her * Aunt Theodosia,' or 
 * Aunt The.' I have called her so ever since she 
 gave me comfits and picture-books." 
 
 " And I," said Lady Beauchamp, " consider 
 her an aunt by marriage. Indeed, when I reflect 
 on it, I feel it an injury not to have had a niece's 
 share of those same comfits and picture-books.
 
 A FAMILY HISTORY. 297 
 
 To make amends for it, she has promised to leave 
 me those two green monsters, and that ivory and 
 ebony cabinet, by will. Dear little auntie ! I 
 hope it will be many years before I get them ! " 
 
 In the evening Mr. Trevor expressed to me 
 how highly he had been gratified by his intro- 
 duction to two such perfect old ladies as my 
 aunts, and his sense of his own good fortune in 
 obtaining a young lady like myself as his only 
 daughter's governess. To see her such a woman 
 as Lady Beauchamp, was, he said, the dearest 
 wish of his heart. He hoped our connection 
 would last until Ellen was grown up, and ex- 
 pressed a wish that I might find Trevor-Court 
 Rectory a home. He then fixed the day for my 
 going there. 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
 R. BORN, PRLSTER, GLOUCESTER STREET, REGENT S PARK.