Chantry House. Yonge Charlotte Mary
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from Peter. When the children appeared each gave Clarence the shyest of kisses, and they sat demurely on their chairs on either side of my father to eat their almonds and raisins, after which we went upstairs, and there was the usual reading. It is curious, but though none of us could have told at the time what it was about, on turning over not long ago a copy of Head’s Pampas and Andes, one chapter struck me with an intolerable sense of melancholy, such as the bull chases of South America did not seem adequate to produce, and by and by I remembered that it was the book in course of being read at that unhappy period. My mother went on as diligently as ever with some of those perpetual shirts which seemed to be always in hand except before company, when she used to do tambour work for Emily’s frocks. Clarence sat the whole time in a dark corner, never stirring, except that he now and then nodded a little. He had gone through many wakeful, and worse than wakeful, nights of wretched suspense, and now the worst was over.
Family prayers took place, chill good-nights were exchanged, and nobody interfered with his helping me up to my bedroom as usual; but there was something in his face to which I durst not speak, though perhaps I looked, for he exclaimed, ‘Don’t, Ned!’ wrung my hand, and sped away to his own quarters higher up. Then came a sound which made me open my door to listen. Dear little Emily! She had burst out of her own room in her dressing-gown, and flung herself upon her brother as he was plodding wearily upstairs in the dark, clinging round his neck sobbing, ‘Dear, dear Clarry! I can’t bear it! I don’t care. You’re my own dear brother, and they are all wicked, horrid people.’
That was all I heard, except hushings on Clarence’s part, as if the opening of my door and the thread of light from it warned him that there was risk of interruption. He seemed to be dragging her up to her own room, and I was left with a pang at her being foremost in comforting him.
My father enacted that he should be treated as usual. But how could that be when papa himself did not know how changed were his own ways from his kindly paternal air of confidence? All trust had been undermined, so that Clarence could not cross the threshold without being required to state his object, and, if he overstayed the time calculated, he was cross-examined, and his replies received with a sigh of doubt.
He hung about the house, not caring to do much, except taking me out in my Bath chair or languidly reading the most exciting books he could get;—but there was no great stock of sensation then, except the Byronic, and from time to time one of my parents would exclaim, ‘Clarence, I wonder you can find nothing more profitable to occupy yourself with than trash like that!’
He would lay down the book without a word, and take up Smith’s Wealth of Nations or Smollett’s England—the profitable studies recommended, and speedily become lost in a dejected reverie, with fixed eyes and drooping lips.
CHAPTER V
A HELPING HAND
‘Though hawks can prey through storms and winds,
The poor bee in her hive must dwell.’—
In imagination the piteous dejection of our family seems to have lasted for ages, but on comparison of dates it is plain that the first lightening of the burthen came in about a fortnight’s time.
The firm of Frith and Castleford was coming to the front in the Chinese trade. The junior partner was an old companion of my father’s boyhood; his London abode was near at hand, and he was a kind of semi-godfather to both Clarence and me, having stood proxy for our nominal sponsors. He was as good and open-hearted a man as ever lived, and had always been very kind to us; but he was scarcely welcome when my father, finding that he had come up alone to London to see about some repairs to his house, while his family were still in the country, asked him to dine and sleep—our first guest since our misfortune.
My mother could hardly endure to receive any one, but she seemed glad to see my father become animated and like himself while Roman Catholic Emancipation was vehemently discussed, and the ruin of England hotly predicted. Clarence moped about silently as usual, and tried to avoid notice, and it was not till the next morning—after breakfast, when the two gentlemen were in the dining-room, nearly ready to go their several ways, and I was in the window awaiting my classical tutor—that Mr. Castleford said,—
‘May I ask, Winslow, if you have any plans for that poor boy?’
‘Edward?’ said my father, almost wilfully misunderstanding. ‘His ambition is to be curator of something in the British Museum, isn’t it?’
Mr. Castleford explained that he meant the other, and my father sadly answered that he hardly knew; he supposed the only thing was to send him to a private tutor, but where to find a fit one he did not know and besides, what could be his aim? Sir John Griffith had said he was only fit for the Church, ‘But one does not wish to dispose of a tarnished article there.’
‘Certainly not,’ said Mr. Castleford; and then he spoke words that rejoiced my heart, though they only made my father groan, bidding him remember that it was not so much actual guilt as the accident of Clarence’s being in the Navy that had given so serious a character to his delinquencies. If he had been at school, perhaps no one would ever have heard of them, ‘Though I don’t say,’ added the good man, casting a new light on the subject, ‘that it would have been better for him in the end.’ Then, quite humbly, for he knew my mother especially had a disdain for trade, he asked what my father would think of letting him give Clarence work in the office for the present. ‘I know,’ he said, ‘it is not the line your family might prefer, but it is present occupation; and I do not think you could well send a youth who has seen so much of the world back to schooling. Besides, this would keep him under your own eye.’
My father was greatly touched by the kindness, but he thought it right to set before Mr. Castleford the very worst side of poor Clarence; declaring that he durst not answer for a boy who had never, in spite of pains and punishments, learnt to speak truth at home or abroad, repeating Captain Brydone’s dreadful report, and even adding that, what was most grievous of all, there was an affectation of piety about him that could scarcely be anything but self-deceit and hypocrisy. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘my eldest son, Griffith, is just a boy, makes no profession, is not—as I am afraid you have seen—exemplary at church, when Clarence sits as meek as a mouse, but then he is always above-board, frank and straightforward. You know where to have a high-spirited fellow, who will tame down, but you never know what will come next with the other. I sometimes wonder for what error of mine Providence has seen fit to give me such a son.’
Just then an important message came for Mr. Winslow, and he had to hurry away, but Mr. Castleford still remained, and presently said,—
‘Edward, I should like to know what your eyes have been trying to say all this time.’
‘Oh, sir,’ I burst out, ‘do give him a chance. Indeed he never means to do wrong. The harm is not in him. He would have been the best of us all if he had only been let alone.’
Those were exactly my own foolish words, for which I could have beaten myself afterwards; but Mr. Castleford only gave a slight grave smile, and said, ‘You mean that your brother’s real defect is in courage, moral and physical.’
‘Yes,’ I said, with a great effort at expressing myself. ‘When he is frightened, or bullied, or browbeaten, he does not know what he is doing or saying. He is quite different when he is his own self; only nobody can understand.’
Strange that though the favoured home son and nearly sixteen years old, it would have been impossible to utter so much to one of our parents. Indeed the last sentence felt so disloyal that the colour burnt in my cheeks as the door opened; but it only admitted Clarence, who, having heard the front door shut, thought the coast was clear, and came in with a load of my books and dictionaries.
‘Clarence,’ said Mr. Castleford, and the direct address made him start and flush, ‘supposing your father consents, should you be willing to turn your mind to a desk in my counting-house?’
He flushed deeper red, and his fingers quivered as he held by the table. ‘Thank you, sir. Anything—anything,’ he said hesitatingly.
‘Well,’