That Boy Of Norcott's. Lever Charles James

at all events, to write to her.” It took a long time for him to go through what I have so briefly set down here; for there were many pros and cons, and he omitted none of them; and while he studiously abstained from applying to my father any expression of censure or reprobation, he could not conceal from me that he regarded him as a very cold-hearted, unfeeling man, from whom little kindness could be expected, and to whom entreaty or petition would be lost time. I will not dwell on the impression this revelation produced on me, nor will I linger on the time that followed on it, – the very saddest of my life. Our lessons were stopped, – all the occupations that once filled the day ceased, – a mournful silence fell upon us, as though there was a death in the house; and there was, indeed, the death of that peaceful existence in which we had glided along for years, and we sat grieving over a time that was to return no more. My mother tried to employ herself in setting my clothes in order, getting my books decently bound, and enabling me in every way to make a respectable appearance in that new life I was about to enter on; but her grief usually overcame her in these attempts, and she would hang in tears over the little trunk that recalled every memory she was so soon to regard as the last traces of her child. Biddy, who had long, for years back, ceased to torment or annoy me, came back with an arrear of bitterness to her mockeries and sneers. “I was going to be a lord, and I’d not know the mother that nursed me if I saw her in the street! Fine clothes and fine treatment was more to me than love and affection; signs on it, I was turning my back on my own mother, and going to live with the blackguard” – she did n’t mince the word – “that left her to starve.” These neatly turned compliments met me at every moment, and by good fortune served to arm me with a sort of indignant courage that carried me well through all my perils.

      To spare my poor mother the pain of parting, Mr. McBride – I cannot say how judiciously – contrived that I should be taken out for a drive and put on board the packet bound for Holyhead, under the charge of a courier, whom my father had sent to fetch me, to Brussels, where he was then living. Of how I left Ireland, and journeyed on afterwards, I know nothing; it was all confusion and turmoil. The frequent changes from place to place, the noise, the new people, the intense haste that seemed to pervade all that went on, addled me to that degree that I had few collected thoughts at the time, and no memory of them afterwards.

      From certain droppings of the courier, however, and his heartily expressed joy as Brussels came in sight, I gathered that I had been a very troublesome charge, and refractory to the very limit of actual rebellion.

      CHAPTER III. WITH MY FATHER

      At the time I speak of, my father dwelt in a villa near Brussels, which had been built by or for Madame Malibran. It was a strange though somewhat incongruous edifice, and more resembled a public building than a private gentleman’s residence. It stood in a vast garden, or rather park, where fruit and forest trees abounded, and patches of flowers came suddenly into view in most unexpected places. There were carriage drives, too, so ingeniously managed that the visitor could be led to believe the space ten times greater than it was in reality. The whole inside and out savored strongly of the theatre, and every device of good or bad taste – the latter largely predominating – had its inspiration in the stage.

      As we drove under the arched entrance gate, over which a crowned leopard – the Norcott crest – was proudly rampant, I felt a strange throb at my heart that proved the old leaven was still alive within me, and that the feeling of being the son of a man of rank and fortune had a strong root in my heart.

      From the deep reverence of the gorgeous porter, who wore an embroidered leather belt over his shoulder, to the trim propriety and order of the noiseless avenue, all bespoke an amount of state and grandeur that appealed very powerfully to me, and I can still recall how the bronze lamps that served to light the approach struck me as something wonderfully fine, as the morning’s sun glanced on their crested tops.

      The carriage drew up at the foot of a large flight of marble steps, which led to a terrace covered by a long veranda.

      Under, the shade of this two gentlemen sat at breakfast, both unknown to me. “Whom have we here?” cried the elder, a fat, middle-aged man of coarse features and stern expression, – “whom have we here?”

      The younger – conspicuous by a dressing-gown and cap that glittered with gold embroidery – looked lazily over the top of his newspaper, and said, “That boy of Norcott’s, I take it; he was to arrive to-day.”

      This was the first time I heard an expression that my ears were soon to be well familiar to, and I cannot tell how bitterly the words insulted me. “Who were they,” I asked myself, “who, under my father’s roof, could dare so to call me! and why was I not styled Sir Roger Norcott’s son, and not thus disparagingly, ‘that boy of Norcott’s’?”

      I walked slowly up the steps among these men as defiantly as though there was a declared enmity between us, and was proceeding straight towards the door, when the elder called out, “Holloa, youngster, come here and report yourself! You ‘ve just come, have n’t you?”

      “I have just come,” said I, slowly; “but when I report myself it shall be to my father, Sir Roger Norcott.”

      “You got that, Hotham, and I must say you deserved it too,” said the younger in a low tone, which my quick hearing, however, caught.

      “Will you have some breakfast with us?” said the elder, with a faint laugh, as though he enjoyed the encounter.

      “No, I thank you, sir,” said I, stiffly, and passed on into the house.

      “Master Digby,” said a smart little man in black, who for a moment or two puzzled me whether he was a guest or a servant, “may I show you to your room, sir? Sir Roger is not up; he seldom rings for his bath before one o’clock; but he said he would have it earlier to-day.”

      “And what is your name, pray?”

      “Nixon, sir. Mr. Nixon, Sir Roger is pleased to call me for distinction’ sake; the lower servants require it.”

      “Tell me then, Mr. Nixon, who are the two gentlemen I saw at breakfast outside?”

      “The stoutish gentleman, sir, is Captain Hotham, of the Royal Navy; the other, with the Turkish pipe, is Mr. Cleremont, Secretary to the Legation here. Great friends of Sir Roger’s, sir. Dine here three or four times a week, and have their rooms always kept for them.”

      The appearance of my room, into which Nixon now ushered me, went far to restore me to a condition of satisfaction. It was the most perfect little bedroom it is possible to imagine, and Nixon never wearied in doing the honors of displaying it.

      “Here’s your library, sir. You’ve only to slide this mirror into the wall; and here are all your books. This press is your armory. Sir Roger gave the order himself for that breech-loader at Liège. This small closet has your bath, – always ready, as you see, sir, – hot and cold; and that knob yonder commands the shower-bath. It smells fresh of paint here just now, sir, for it was only finished on Saturday; and the men are coming to-day to fix a small iron staircase from your balcony down to the garden. Sir Roger said he was sure you would like it.”

      I was silent for a moment, – a moment of exquisite revery, – and then I asked if there were always people visitors at the Villa.

      “I may say, sir, indeed, next to always. We haven’t dined alone since March last.”

      “How many usually come to dinner?”

      “Five or seven, sir; always an odd number. Seldom more than seven, and never above eleven, except a state dinner to some great swell going through.”

      “No ladies, of course?”

      “Pardon me, sir. The Countess Vander Neeve dined here yesterday; Madam Van Straaten, and Mrs. Cleremont – Excuse me, sir, there’s Sir Roger’s bell. I must go and tell him you’ve arrived.”

      When Nixon left me, I sat for full twenty minutes, like one walking out of a trance, and asking myself how much was real, and how much fiction, of all around me?

      My eyes wandered over the room, and from the beautiful little Gothic clock on the mantelpiece to the gilded pineapple from which my bed-curtains descended, –