Chantry House - Yonge Charlotte Mary

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life was tugging at the lad’s heart, and making each morning’s entrance at the counting-house an effort—each merchant-captain, redolent of the sea, an object of envy.  My mother would have sympathised here, but Clarence feared her more than my father, and she was living in continual dread of some explosion, so that her dark curls began to show streaks of gray, and her face to lose its round youthfulness.

      Lent brought the question of Confirmation.  Under the influence of good Bishop Blomfield, and in the wave of evangelical revival—then at its flood height—Confirmation was becoming a more prominent subject with religious people than it had probably ever been in our Church, and it was recognised that some preparation was desirable beyond the power of repeating the Church Catechism.  This was all that had been required of my father at Harrow.  My mother’s godfather, a dignified clergyman, had simply said, ‘I suppose, my dear, you know all about it;’ and as for the Admiral, he remarked, ‘Confirmed!  I never was confirmed anything but a post-captain!’

      Our incumbent was more attentive to his duties, or rather recognised more duties, than his predecessor.  He preached on the subject, and formed classes, sixteen being then the limit of age,—since the idea of the vow, having become far more prominent than that of the blessing, it was held that full development of the will and understanding was needful.

      I was of the requisite age, and my father spoke to the clergyman, who called, and, as I could not attend the classes, gave me books to read and questions to answer.  Clarence read and discussed the questions with me, showing so much more insight into them, and fuller knowledge of Scripture than I possessed, that I exclaimed, ‘Why should you not go up for Confirmation too?’

      ‘No,’ he answered mournfully.  ‘I must take no more vows if I can’t keep them.  It would just be profane.’

      I had no more to say; indeed, my parents held the same view.  It was good Mr. Castleford who saw things differently.  He was a clergyman’s son, and had been bred up in the old orthodoxy, which was just beginning to put forth fresh shoots, and, as a quasi-godfather, he held himself bound to take an interest in our religious life, while the sponsors, whose names stood in the family Bible, and whose spoons reposed in the plate-chest, never troubled themselves on the matter.  I remember Clarence leaning over me and saying, ‘Mr. Castleford thinks I might be confirmed.  He says it is not so much the promise we make as of coming to Almighty God for strength to keep what we are bound by already!  He is going to speak to papa.’

      Perhaps no one except Mr. Castleford could have prevailed over the fear of profanation in the mind of my father, who was, in his old-fashioned way, one of the most reverent of men, and could not bear to think of holy things being approached by one under a stigma, nor of exposing his son to add to his guilt by taking and breaking further pledges.  However, he was struck by his friend’s arguments, and I heard him telling my mother that when he had wished to wait till there had been time to prove sincerity of repentance by a course of steadiness, the answer had been that it was hard to require strength, while denying the means of grace.  My mother was scarcely convinced, but as he had consented she yielded without a protest; and she was really glad that I should have Clarence at my side to help me at the ceremony.  The clergyman was applied to, and consented to let Clarence attend the classes, where his knowledge, comprehension, and behaviour were exemplary, so that a letter was written to my father expressive of perfect satisfaction with him.  ‘There,’ said my father, ‘I knew it would be so!  It is not that which I want.’

      The Confirmation seemed at the time a very short and perfunctory result of our preparation; and, as things were conducted or misconducted then, involved so much crowding and distress that I recollect very little but clinging to Clarence’s arm under a strong sense of my infirmities,—the painful attempt at kneeling, and the big outstretched lawn sleeves while the blessing was pronounced over six heads at once, and then the struggle back to the pew, while the silver-pokered apparitor looked grim at us, as though the maimed and halt had no business to get into the way.  Yet this was a great advance upon former Confirmations, and the Bishop met my father afterwards, and inquired most kindly after his lame son.

      We were disappointed, and felt that we could not attain to the feelings in the Confirmation poem in the Christian Year—Mr. Castleford’s gift to me.  Still, I believe that, though encumbered with such a drag as myself, Clarence, more than I did,

      ‘Felt Him how strong, our hearts how frail,

      And longed to own Him to the death.’

      But the evangelical belief that dejection ought to be followed by a full sense of pardon and assurance of salvation somewhat perplexed and dimmed our Easter Communion.  For one short moment, as Clarence turned to help my father lift me up from the altar-rail, I saw his face and eyes radiant with a wonderful rapt look; but it passed only too fast, and the more than ordinary glimpse his spiritual nature had had made him all the more sad afterwards, when he said, ‘I would give everything to know that there was any steadfastness in my purpose to lead a new life.’

      ‘But you are leading a new life.’

      ‘Only because there is no one to bully me,’ he said.  Still, there had been no reproach against him all the time he had been at Frith and Castleford’s, when suddenly we had a great shock.

      Parties were running very high, and there were scurrilous papers about, which my father perfectly abhorred; and one day at dinner, when declaiming against something he had seen, he laid down strict commands that none should be brought into the house.  Then, glancing at Clarence, something possessed him to say, ‘You have not been buying any.’

      ‘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

      ‘For he that needs five thousand pound to live

      Is full as poor as he that needs but five.

      But if thy son can make ten pound his measure,

      Then all thou addest may be called his treasure.’

George Herbert.

      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. 

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