Chantry House. Yonge Charlotte Mary

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      ‘No, sir,’ Clarence answered; but a few minutes later, when we were alone together, the others having left him to help me upstairs, he exclaimed, ‘Edward, what is to be done?  I didn’t buy it; but there is one of those papers in my great-coat pocket.  Pollard threw it on my desk; and there was something in it that I thought would amuse you.’

      ‘Oh! why didn’t you say so?’

      ‘There I am again!  I simply could not, with his eye on me!  Miserable being that I am!  Oh, where is the spirit of ghostly strength?’

      ‘Helping you now to take it to papa in the study and explain!’ I cried; but the struggle in that tall fellow was as if he had been seven years old instead of seventeen, ere he put his hand over his face and gave me his arm to come out into the hall, fetch the paper, and make his confession.  Alas! we were too late.  The coat had been moved, the paper had fallen out; and there stood my mother with it in her hand, looking at Clarence with an awful stony face of mute grief and reproach, while he stammered forth what he had said before, and that he was about to give it to my father.  She turned away, bitterly, contemptuously indignant and incredulous; and my corroborations only served to give both her and my father a certain dread of Clarence’s influence over me, as though I had been either deceived or induced to back him in deceiving them.  The unlucky incident plunged him back into the depths, just as he had begun to emerge.  Slight as it was, it was no trifle to him, in spite of Griffith’s exclamation, ‘How absurd!  Is a fellow to be bound to give an account of everything he looks at as if he were six years old?  Catch me letting my mother pry into my pockets!  But you are too meek, Bill; you perfectly invite them to make a row about nothing!’

      CHAPTER VII

      THE INHERITANCE

      It was in the spring of 1829 that my father received a lawyer’s letter announcing the death of James Winslow, Esquire, of Chantry House, Earlscombe, and inviting him, as heir-at-law, to be present at the funeral and opening of the will.  The surprise to us all was great.  Even my mother had hardly heard of Chantry House itself, far less as a possible inheritance; and she had only once seen James Winslow.  He was the last of the elder branch of the family, a third cousin, and older than my father, who had known him in times long past.  When they had last met, the Squire of Chantry House was a married man, with more than one child; my father a young barrister; and as one lived entirely in the country and the other in town, without any special congeniality, no intercourse had been kept up, and it was a surprise to hear that he had left no surviving children.  My father greatly doubted whether being heir-at-law would prove to avail him anything, since it was likely that so distant a relation would have made a will in favour of some nearer connection on his wife’s or mother’s side.  He was very vague about Chantry House, only knowing that it was supposed to be a fair property, and he would hardly consent to take Griffith with him by the Western Royal Mail, warning him and all the rest of us that our expectations would be disappointed.

      Nevertheless we looked out the gentlemen’s seats in Paterson’s Road Book, and after much research, for Chantry House lay far off from the main road, we came upon—‘Chantry House, Earlscombe, the seat of James Winslow, Esquire, once a religious foundation; beautifully situated on a rising ground, commanding an extensive prospect—’

      ‘A religious foundation!’ cried Emily.  ‘It will be a dear delicious old abbey, all Gothic architecture, with cloisters and ruins and ghosts.’

      ‘Ghosts!’ said my mother severely, ‘what has put such nonsense into your head?’

      Nevertheless Emily made up her mind that Chantry House would be another Melrose, and went about repeating the moonlight scene in the Lay of the Last Minstrel whenever she thought no one was there to laugh at her.

      My father and Griffith returned with the good news that there was no mistake.  Chantry House was really his own, with the estate belonging to it, reckoned at £5000 a year, exclusive of a handsome provision to Miss Selby, the niece of the late Mrs. Winslow, a spinster of a certain age, who had lived with her uncle, and now proposed to remove to Bath.  Mr. Winslow had, it appeared, lost his only son as a schoolboy, and his daughters, like their mother, had been consumptive.  He had always been resolved that the estate should continue in the family; but reluctance to see any one take his son’s place had withheld him from making any advances to my father; and for several years past he had been in broken health with failing faculties.

      Of course there was much elation.  Griff described as charming the place, perched on the southern slope of a wooded hill, with a broad fertile valley lying spread out before it, and the woods behind affording every promise of sport.  The house, my father said, was good, odd and irregular, built at different times, but quite habitable, and with plenty of furniture, though he opined that mamma would think it needed modernising, to which she replied that our present chattels would make a great difference; whereat my father, looking at the effects of more than twenty years of London blacks, gave a little whistle, for she was always the economical one of the pair.

      Emily, with glowing cheeks and eager eyes, entreated to know whether it was Gothic, and had a cloister!  Papa nipped her hopes of a cloister, but there were Gothic windows and doorway, and a bit of ruin in the garden, a fragment of the old chapel.

      My father could not resign his office without notice, and, besides, he wished Miss Selby to have leisure for leaving her home of many years; after which there would be a few needful repairs.  The delay was not a great grievance to any of us except little Martyn.  We were much more Cockney than almost any one is in these days of railways.  We were unusually devoid of kindred on both sides, my father’s holidays were short, I was not a very movable commodity, and economy forbade long journeys, so that we had never gone farther than Ramsgate, where we claimed a certain lodging-house as a sort of right every summer.

      Real country was as much unknown to us as the backwoods.  My father alone had been born and bred to village life and habits, for my mother had spent her youth in a succession of seaport towns, frequented by men-of-war.  We heard, too, that Chantry House was very secluded, with only a few cottages near at hand—a mile and a half from the church and village of Earlscombe, three from the tiny country town of Wattlesea, four from the place where the coach passed, connecting it with the civilisation of Bath and Bristol, from each of which places it was about half a day’s distance, according to the measures of those times.  It was a sort of banishment to people accustomed to the stream of life in London; and though the consequence and importance derived from being raised to the ranks of the Squirearchy were agreeable, they were a dear purchase at the cost of being out of reach of all our friends and acquaintances, as well as of other advantages.

      To my father, however, the retirement from his many years of drudgery was really welcome, and he had preserved enough of country tastes to rejoice that it was, as he said, a clear duty to reside on his estate and look after his property.  My mother saw his relief in the prospect, and suppressed her sighs at the dislocation of her life-long habits, and the loss of intercourse with the acquaintance whom separation raised to the rank of intimate friends, even her misgivings as to butchers, bakers, and grocers in the wilderness, and still worse, as to doctors for me.

      ‘Humph!’ said the Admiral, ‘the boy will be all the better without them.’

      And so I was; I can’t say they were the subject of much regret, but I was really sorry to leave our big neighbour, the British Museum, where there were good friends СКАЧАТЬ