Chantry House

by Charlotte M. Yonge

CHAPTER I.
	PAGE
A Nursery Prose	[1]
CHAPTER II.
Schoolroom Days	[11]
CHAPTER III.
Win and Slow	[17]
CHAPTER IV.
Ubi Lapsus, Quid Feci	[25]
CHAPTER V.
A Helping Hand	[34]
CHAPTER VI.
The Valley of Humiliation	[43]
CHAPTER VII.
The Inheritance	[50]
CHAPTER VIII.
The Old House	[59]
CHAPTER IX.
Rats	[67]
CHAPTER X.
Our Tuneful Choir	[73]
CHAPTER XI.
‘They Fordys’	[82]
CHAPTER XII.
Mrs. Sophia’s Feud	[89]
CHAPTER XIII.
A Scrape	[96]
CHAPTER XIV.
The Mullion Chamber	[107]
CHAPTER XV.
Rational Theories	[117]
CHAPTER XVI.
Cat Language	[126]
CHAPTER XVII.
The Siege of Hillside	[136]
CHAPTER XVIII.
The Portrait	[149]
CHAPTER XIX.
The White Feather	[159]
CHAPTER XX.
Veni, Vidi, Vici	[171]
CHAPTER XXI.
The Outside of theCourtship	[179]
CHAPTER XXII.
Bristol Diamonds	[186]
CHAPTER XXIII.
Quicksands	[198]
CHAPTER XXIV.
After the Tempest	[208]
CHAPTER XXV.
Holiday-making	[217]
CHAPTER XXVI.
C. Morbus, Esq.	[229]
CHAPTER XXVII.
Peter’s Thunderbolt	[236]
CHAPTER XXVIII.
A Squire of Dames	[245]
CHAPTER XXIX.
Love and Obedience	[251]
CHAPTER XXX.
Una or Duessa	[260]
CHAPTER XXXI.
Facilis Descensus	[269]
CHAPTER XXXII.
Waly, Waly	[278]
CHAPTER XXXIII.
The River’s Bank	[284]
CHAPTER XXXIV.
Not in Vain	[293]
CHAPTER XXXV.
Griff’s Bird	[299]
CHAPTER XXXVI.
Slack Water	[307]
CHAPTER XXXVII.
Outward Bound	[316]
CHAPTERXXXVIII.
Too Late	[328]
CHAPTER XXXIX.
A Purpose	[337]
CHAPTER XL.
The Midnight Chase	[344]
CHAPTER XLI.
Wills Old and New	[350]
CHAPTER XLII.
On a Spree	[357]
CHAPTER XLIII.
The Price	[364]
CHAPTER XLIV.
Paying the Cost	[371]
CHAPTER XLV.
Achieved	[378]
CHAPTER XLVI.
Restitution	[385]
CHAPTER XLVII.
The Fordyce Story	[392]
CHAPTER XLVIII.
The Last Discovery	[399]

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

‘What I do remember, is my mother reading to me as I lay in my crib’	Frontispiece.
A feeble water-coloured drawing of the trio	Vignette.
‘That is poor Margaret who married your ancestor’	Page [154]
Lady Margaret’s ghost	[346]

CHAPTER I.
A NURSERY PROSE.

‘And if it be the heart of man
Which our existence measures,
Far longer is our childhood’s span
Than that of manly pleasures.

‘For long each month and year is then,
Their thoughts and days extending,
But months and years pass swift with men
To time’s last goal descending.’

Isaac Williams.

The united force of the younger generation has been brought upon me to record, with the aid of diaries and letters, the circumstances connected with Chantry House and my two dear elder brothers. Once this could not have been done without more pain than I could brook, but the lapse of time heals wounds, brings compensations, and, when the heart has ceased from aching and yearning, makes the memory of what once filled it a treasure to be brought forward with joy and thankfulness. Nor would it be well that some of those mentioned in the coming narrative should be wholly forgotten, and their place know them no more.

To explain all, I must go back to a time long before the morning when my father astonished us all by exclaiming, ‘Poor old James Winslow! So Chantry House is came to us after all!’ Previous to that event I do not think we were aware of the existence of that place, far less of its being a possible inheritance, for my parents would never have permitted themselves or their family to be unsettled by the notion of doubtful contingencies.

My father, John Edward Winslow, was a barrister, and held an appointment in the Admiralty Office, which employed him for many hours of the day at Somerset House. My mother, whose maiden name was Mary Griffith, belonged to a naval family. Her father had been lost in a West Indian hurricane at sea, and her uncle, Admiral Sir John Griffith, was the hero of the family, having been at Trafalgar and distinguished himself in cutting out expeditions. My eldest brother bore his name. The second was named after the Duke of Clarence, with whom my mother had once danced at a ball on board ship at Portsmouth, and who had been rather fond of my uncle. Indeed, I believe my father’s appointment had been obtained through his interest, just about the time of Clarence’s birth.

We three boys had come so fast upon each other’s heels in the Novembers of 1809, 10, and 11, that any two of us used to look like twins. There is still extant a feeble water-coloured drawing of the trio, in nankeen frocks, and long white trowsers, with bare necks and arms, the latter twined together, and with the free hands, Griffith holding a bat, Clarence a trap, and I a ball. I remember the emulation we felt at Griffith’s privilege of eldest in holding the bat.

The sitting for that picture is the only thing I clearly remember during those earlier days. I have no recollection of the disaster, which, at four years old, altered my life. The catastrophe, as others have described it, was that we three boys were riding cock-horse on the balusters of the second floor of our house in Montagu Place, Russell Square, when we indulged in a general mêlée, which resulted in all tumbling over into the vestibule below. The others, to whom I served as cushion, were not damaged beyond the power of yelling, and were quite restored in half-an-hour, but I was undermost, and the consequence has been a curved spine, dwarfed stature, an elevated shoulder, and a shortened, nearly useless leg.