That Boy Of Norcott's. Lever Charles James

hear of me constantly, if I cannot write myself.

      “Oh, dearest mamma, when papa is kind there is no one like him, – so gentle, so thoughtful, so soft in manner, and so dignified all the while. I wish you could see him as he stood here. A thousand loves from your own boy,

      “DIGBY.”

      Madame Cleremont wrote by the same post. I did not see her letter; but when mamma’s answer came I knew it must have been a serious version of my accident, and told how, besides a dislocated shoulder, I had got a broken collar-bone, and two ribs fractured. With all this, however, there was no danger to life; for the doctor said everything had gone luckily, and no internal parts were wounded.

      Poor mamma had added a postscript that puzzled Madame greatly, and she came and showed it to me, and asked what I thought she could do about it. It was an entreaty that she might be permitted to come and see me. There was a touching humility in the request that almost choked me with emotion as I read it. “I could come and go unknown and unnoticed,” wrote she. “None of Sir Roger’s household have ever seen me, and my visit might pass for the devotion of some old follower of the family, and I will promise not to repeat it.” She urged her plea in the most beseeching terms, and said that she would submit to any conditions if her prayer were only complied with.

      “I really do not know what to do here,” said Madame to me. “Without your father’s concurrence this cannot be done; and who is to ask him for permission?”

      “Shall I?”

      “No, no, no,” cried she, rapidly. “Such a step on your part would be ruin; a certain refusal, and ruin to yourself.”

      “Could Mr. Eccles do it?”

      “He has no influence whatever.”

      “Has Captain Hotham?”

      “Less, if less be possible.”

      “Mr. Cleremont, then?”

      “Ah, yes, he might, and with a better chance of success; but – ” She stopped, and though I waited patiently, she did not finish her sentence.

      “But what?” asked I at last.

      “Gaston hates doing a hazardous thing,” said she; and I remarked that her expression changed, and her face assumed a hard, stern look as she spoke. “His theory is, do nothing without three to one in your favor. He says you ‘ll always gets these odds, if you only wait.”

      “But you don’t believe that,” cried I, eagerly.

      “Sometimes – very seldom, that is, I do not whenever I can help it.” There was a long pause now, in which neither of us spoke. At last she said, “I can’t aid your mother in this project. She must give it up. There is no saying how your father would resent it.”

      “And how will you tell her that?” faltered I out.

      “I can’t tell. I’ll try and show her the mischief it might bring upon you; and that now, standing high, as you do, in your father’s favor, she would never forgive herself, if she were the cause of a change towards you. This consideration will have more weight with her than any that could touch herself personally.”

      “But it shall not,” cried I, passionately. “Nothing in my fortune shall stand between my mother and her love for me.”

      She bent down and looked at me with an intensity in her stare that I cannot describe; it was as if, by actual steadfastness, she was able to fix me, and read me in my inmost heart.

      “From which of your parents, Digby,” said she, slowly, “do you derive this nature?”

      “I do not know; papa always says I am very like him.”

      “And do you believe that papa is capable of great self-sacrifice? I mean, would he let his affections lead him against his interests?”

      “That he would! He has told me over and over the head is as often wrong as right, – the heart only errs about once in five times.” She fell on my neck and kissed me as I said this, with a sort of rapturous delight. “Your heart will be always right, dear boy,” said she; once more she bent down and kissed me, and then hurried away.

      This scene must have worked more powerfully on my nerves than I felt, or was aware of, while it was passing; at all events, it brought back my fever, and before night I was in wild delirium. Of the seven long weeks that followed, with all their alternations, I know nothing. My first consciousness was to know myself, as very weak and propped by pillows, in a half-darkened room, in which an old nurse-tender sat and mingled her heavy snorings with the ticking of the clock on the chimney. Thus drowsily pondering, with a debilitated brain, I used to fancy that I had passed away into another form of existence, in which no sights or sounds should come but these dreary breathings, and that remorseless ticking that seemed to be spelling out “eternity.”

      Sometimes one, sometimes two or three persons would enter the room, approach the bed, and talk together in whispers, and I would languidly lift up my eyes and look at them, and though I thought they were not altogether unknown to me, the attempt at recognition would have been an effort so full of pain that I would, rather than make it, fall back again into apathy. The first moment of perfect consciousness – when I could easily follow all that I heard, and remember it afterwards – was one evening, when a faint but delicious air came in through the open window, and the rich fragrance of the garden filled the room. Captain Hotham and the doctor were seated on the balcony smoking and chatting.

      “You ‘re sure the tobacco won’t be bad for him?” asked Hotham.

      “Nothing will be bad or good now,” was the answer. “Effusion has set in.”

      “Which means, that it’s all over, eh?”

      “About one in a thousand, perhaps, rub through. My own experience records no instance of recovery.”

      “And you certainly did not take such a gloomy view of his case at first. You told me that there were no vital parts touched?”

      “Neither were there; the ribs had suffered no displacement, and as for a broken clavicle, I ‘ve known a fellow get up and finish his race after it This boy was doing famously. I don’t know that I ever saw a case going on better, when some of them here – it’s not easy to say whom – sent off for his mother to come and see him. Of course, without Norcott’s knowledge. It was a rash thing to do, and not well done either; for when the woman arrived, there was no preparation made, either with the boy or herself, for their meeting; and the result was that when she crossed the threshold and saw him she fainted away. The youngster tried to get to her and fainted too; a great hubbub and noise followed; and Norcott himself appeared. The scene that ensued must have been, from what I heard, terrific. He either ordered the woman out of the house, or he dragged her away, – it’s not easy to say which; but it is quite clear that he went absolutely mad with passion: some say that he told them to pack off the boy along with her, but, of course, this was sheer impossibility; the boy was insensible, and has been so ever since.”

      “I was at Namur that day, but they told me when I came back that Cleremont’s wife had behaved so well; that she had the courage to face Norcott; and though I don’t believe she did much by her bravery, she drove him off the field to his own room, and when his wife did leave the house for the railroad, it was in one of Norcott’s carriages, and Madame herself accompanied her.”

      “Is she his wife? that’s the question.”

      “There’s not a doubt of it. Blenkworth of the Grays was at the wedding.

      “If I were to be examined before a commission of lunacy to-morrow,” said the doctor, solemnly, “I ‘d call that man insane.”

      “And you’d shut him up?”

      “I’d shut him up!”

      “Then I ‘m precious glad you are not called on to give an opinion, for you ‘d shut up the best house in this quarter of Europe.”

      “And what security have you any moment that he won’t make a clean sweep of it, and turn you all into the streets?”

      “Yes;