That Boy Of Norcott's

“Then we must take care, sir, that he does not hear of it,” said I, half fiercely, and as though addressing my speech especially to himself.

“Not from me, certainly,” said he. “My doctor’s instincts always save me from such indiscretions.”

“Is our Countess young, doctor?” asked I, half jocularly.

“Young and pretty, though one might say, too, she has been younger and prettier. If you dine below stairs today, drink no wine, and get back to your sofa as soon as you can after dinner.” With this caution he left me.

A heavy packet of letters had arrived from Fiume, containing, I surmised, some instructions for which I had written; but seeing that the address was in the cashier’s handwriting, I felt no impatience to break the seal.

I dressed myself with unusual care, though the pain of my arm made the process a very slow one; and at last set out to pay my visit. I passed along the corridor, through the conservatory, and found myself at a door, at which I knocked twice. At last I turned the handle, and entered a small but handsomely furnished drawing-room, about which books and newspapers lay scattered; and a small embroidery-frame near the fire showed where she, who was engaged with that task, had lately been seated. As I bent down in some curiosity to examine a really clever copy of an altar-piece of Albert Durer, a door gently opened, and I heard the rustle of a silk dress. I had not got time to look round when, with a cry, she rushed towards me, and clasped me in her arms. It was Madame Cleremont!

“My own dear, dear Digby!” she cried, as she kissed me over face and forehead, smoothing back my hair to look at me, and then falling again on my neck. “I knew it could be no other when I heard of you, darling; and when they told me of your singing, I could have sworn it was yourself.”

I tried to disengage myself from her embrace, and summoned what I could of sternness to repel her caresses. She dropped at my feet, and, clasping my hands, implored me, in accents broken with passion, to forgive her. To see her who had once been all that a mother could have been to me in tenderness and care, who watched the long hours of the night beside my sick-bed, – to see her there before me, abject, self-accused, and yet entreating forgiveness, was more than I could bear. My nerves, besides, had been already too tensely strung; and I burst into a passion of tears that totally overcame me. She sat with her arm round me, and wept.

With a wild hysterical rapidity she poured forth a sort of excuse of her own conduct. She recalled all that I had seen her suffer of insult and shame; the daily outrages passed upon her; the slights which no woman can or ought to pardon. She spoke of her friendlessness, her misery; but, more than all, her consuming desire to be avenged on the man who had degraded her. “Your father, I knew, was the man to do me this justice,” she cried; “he did not love me, nor did I love him; but we both hated this wretch, and it seemed little to me what became of me, if I could but compass his ruin.”

I scarcely followed her. I bethought me of my poor mother, for whom none had a thought, neither of the wrongs done her, nor of the sufferings to which she was so remorselessly consigned.

“You do not listen to me. You do not hear me,” cried she, passionately; “and yet who has been your friend as I have? Who has implored your father to be just towards you as I have done? Who has hazarded her whole future in maintaining your rights, – who but I?” In a wild rhapsody of mingled passion and appeal she went on to show how Sir Roger insisted on presenting her everywhere as his wife.

Even at courts she had been so presented, though all the terrible consequences of exposure were sure to ring over the whole of Europe. The personal danger of the step was-a temptation too strong to resist; and the altercation and vindication that must follow were ecstasy to him. He was-pitting himself against the world, and he would back himself on the issue.

“And, here, where we are now,” cried I, “what is to happen if to-morrow some stranger should arrive from England who knows your story, and feels he owes it to his host to proclaim it?”

“Is it not too clear what is to happen?” shrieked she; “blood, more blood, – theirs or his, or both! Just as he struck a young prince at Baden with a glove across the face, because he stared at me too rudely, and shot him afterwards; his dearest tie to me is the peril that attaches to me. Do you not know him, Digby? Do you not know the insolent disdain with which he refuses to be bound by what other men submit to; and that when he has said, ‘I am ready to stake my life on it,’ he believes he has proved his conviction to be a just one?”

Of my father’s means, or what remained to him of fortune, she knew nothing. They had often been reduced to almost want, and at other times money would flow freely in, to be wasted and lavished with that careless munificence that no experiences of privation could ever teach prudence. We now turned to speculate on what would happen when he came back from this shooting-party; how he would recognize me.

“I see,” cried I: “you suspect he will disown me?”

“Not that, dear Digby,” said she, in some confusion, “but he may require – that is, he may wish you to conform to some plan, some procedure of his own.”

“If this should involve the smallest infraction of what is due to my mother, I ‘ll refuse,” said I, firmly, “and reject as openly as he dares to make it.”

“And are you ready to face what may follow?”

“If you mean as regards myself, I am quite ready. My father threw me off years ago, and I am better able to fight the battle of life now than I was then. I ask nothing of him, – not even his name. If you speak of other consequences, – of what may ensue when his hosts shall learn the fraud he has practised on them – ” It was only as the fatal word fell from me that I felt how cruelly I had spoken, and I stopped and took her hand in mine, saying, “Do not be angry with me, dear friend, that I have spoken a bitter word; bear with me for her sake, who has none to befriend her but myself.”

She made me no answer, but looked out cold and stern into vacancy, her pale features motionless, not a line or lineament betraying what was passing within her.

“Why remain here then to provoke a catastrophe?” cried she, suddenly. “If you have come for pleasure, you see enough to be aware there is little more awaiting you.”

“I have not come for pleasure. I am here to confer with Count Hunyadi on a matter of business.”

“And will some paltry success in a little peddling contract for the Count’s wine or his olives or his Indian corn compensate you for the ruin you may bring on your father? Will it recompense you if his blood be shed?”

There was a tone of defiant sarcasm in the way she spoke these words that showed me, if I would not yield to her persuasions, she would not hesitate to employ other means of coercion. Perhaps she mistook the astonishment my face expressed for terror; for she went on: “It would be well that you thought twice over it ere you make your breach with your father irreparable. Remember, it is not a question of a passing sentimentality or a sympathy, it is the whole story of your life is at issue, – if you be anything, or anybody, or a nameless creature, without belongings or kindred.”

I sat for some minutes in deep thought. I was not sure whether I understood her words, and that she meant to say it lay entirely with my father to own or disown me, as he pleased. She seemed delighted at my embarrassment, and her voice rung out with its own clear triumphant cadence, as she said, “You begin at last to see how near the precipice you have been straying.”

“One moment, Madam,” cried I. “If my mother be Lady Norcott, Sir Roger cannot disown me; not to say that already, in an open court, he has maintained his right over me and declared me his son.”

“You are opening a question I will not touch, Digby,” said she, gravely, – “your mother’s marriage. I will only say that the ablest lawyers your father has consulted pronounce it more than questionable.”

“And my father has then entertained the project of an attempt to break it.”

“This is not fair,” cried she, eagerly; “you lead me on from one admission to another, till I find myself revealing confidences to one who at any moment may avow himself my enemy.”

I raised my eyes to her face, and she met my glance with a look cold, stern, and impassive, as though she would say, “Choose your path now, and accept me as friend or foe.” All the winning softness of her manner, all those engaging coquetries of look and gesture, of which none was more mistress, were gone, and another and a very different nature had replaced them.

This, then, was one of those women all tenderness and softness and fascination, but who behind this mask have the fierce nature of the tigress. Could she be the same I had seen so submissive under all the insolence of her brutal husband, bearing his scoffs and his sarcasms without a word of reply? Was it that these cruelties had at last evoked this stern spirit, and that another temperament had been generated out of a nature broken down and demoralised by ill treatment?

“Shall I tell you what I think you ought to do?” asked she, calmly. I nodded assent. “Sit down there, then,” continued she, “and write these few lines to your father, and let him have them before he returns here.”

“First of all, I cannot write just now; I have had a slight accident to my right arm.”

“I know,” said she, smiling dubiously. “You hurt it in the riding-school; but it’s a mere nothing, is it not?”

I made a gesture of assent, not altogether pleased the while at the little sympathy she vouchsafed me, and the insignificance she ascribed to my wound.

“Shall I write for you, then? you can sign it afterwards.‘’

“Let me first know what you would have me say.”

“Dear father – You always addressed him that way?”

“Yes.”

“Dear father, – I have been here some days, awaiting Count Hunyadi’s return to transact some matters of business with him, and have by a mere accident learned that you are amongst his guests. As I do not know how, to what extent, or in what capacity it may be your pleasure to recognize me, or whether it might not chime better with your convenience to ignore me altogether, I write now to submit myself entirely to your will and guidance, being in this, as in all things, your dutiful and obedient son.”

The words came from her pen as rapidly as her fingers could move across the paper; and as she finished, she pushed it towards me, saying, —

“There – put ‘Digby Norcott’ there, and it is all done!”

“This is a matter to think over,” said I, gravely. “I may be compromising other interests than my own by signing this.”

“Those Jews of yours have imbued you well with their cautious spirit, I see,” said she, scoffingly.

“They have taught me no lessons I am ashamed of, Madam,” said I, reddening with anger.

“I declare I don’t know you as the Digby of long ago! I fancied I did, when I heard those ladies coming upstairs each night, so charmed with all your graceful gifts, and so eloquent over all your fascinations; and now, as you stand there, word-splitting and phrase-weighing, canvassing what it might cost you to do this or where it would lead you to say that, I ask myself, Is this the boy of whom his father said, ‘Above all things he shall be a gentleman’?”

“To one element of that character, Madam, I will try and preserve my claim, – no provocation shall drive me to utter a rudeness to a lady.”

“This is less breeding than calculation, young gentleman. I read such natures as yours as easily as a printed book.”

“I ask nothing better, Madam; my only fear would be that you should mistake me, and imagine that any deference to my father’s views would make me forget my mother’s rights.”

“So then,” cried she, with a mocking laugh, “you have got your courage up so far, – you dare me! Be advised, however, and do not court such an unequal contest. I have but to choose in which of a score of ways I could crush you, – do you mark me? crush you! You will not always be as lucky as you were this morning in the riding-school.”

“Great heaven!” cried I, “was this, then, of your devising?”

“You begin to have a glimpse of whom you have to deal with? Go back to your room and reflect on that knowledge, and if it end in persuading you to quit this place at once, and never return to it, it will be a wise resolve.”

I was too much occupied with the terrible fact that she had already conspired against my life to heed her words of counsel, and I stood there stunned and confused.

In the look of scorn and hate she threw on me, she seemed to exult over my forlorn and bewildered condition.

“I scarcely think there is any need to prolong this interview,” said she, at last, with an easy smile; “each of us is by this time aware of the kindly sentiments of the other; is it not so?”

“I am going, Madam,” I stammered out; “good-bye.”

She made a slight movement, as I thought, towards me; but it was in reality the prelude to a deep courtesy, while in her sweetest of accents she whispered, “Au revoir, Monsieur Digby, au revoir.” I bowed deeply and withdrew.

CHAPTER XXX. HASTY TIDINGS

Of all the revulsions of feeling that can befall the heart, I know of none to compare in poignant agony with the sudden consciousness that you are hated where once you were loved; that where once you had turned for consolation or sympathy you have now nothing to expect but coldness and distrust; that the treasure of affection on which you have counted against the day of adversity had proved bankrupt, and nothing remained of all its bright hopes and promises but bitter regrets and sorrowful repinings.

It was in the very last depth of this spirit I now locked myself in my room to determine what I should do, by what course I should shape my future. I saw the stake for which Madame Cleremont was playing. She had resolved that my mother’s marriage should be broken, and she herself declared Lady Norcott. That my father might be brought to accede to such a plan was by no means improbable. Its extravagance and its enormity would have been great inducements, had he no other interest in the matter.

I began to canvass with myself how persons poor and friendless could possibly meet the legal battle which this question should originate, and how my mother, in her destitution and poverty, could contend against the force of the wealth that would be opposed to her. It had only been by the united efforts of her relatives and friends, all eager to support her in such a cause, that she had been enabled to face the expenses of the suit my father had brought on the question of my guardianship. How could she again sustain a like charge? Was it likely that her present condition would enable her to fee leaders on circuit and bar magnates, to pay the costs of witnesses, and all the endless outgoings of the law?

So long as I lived, I well knew my poor mother would compromise none of the rights that pertained to me; but if I could be got rid of, – and the event of the morning shot through my mind, – some arrangement with her might not be impossible, – at least, it was open to them to think so; and I could well imagine that they would build on such a foundation. It was not easy to imagine a woman like \ Madame Cleremont, a person of the most attractive manners, beautiful, gifted, and graceful, capable of a great crime; but she herself had shown me more than once in fiction the portraiture of an individual who, while shrinking with horror from the coarse contact of guilt, would willingly set the springs in motion which ultimately conduce to the most appalling disasters. I remember even her saying to me one day, “It is in watching the terrible explosions their schemes have ignited, that cowards learn to taste what they fancy to be the ecstasy of courage.”

While I thought what a sorry adversary I should prove against such a woman, with all the wiles of her nature, and all the seductions by which she could display them, my eyes fell upon the packet from Fiume, which still lay with its seal unbroken. I broke it open half carelessly. It contained an envelope marked “Letters,” and the following note: —

“Herr Owen, – With this you are informed that the house of Hodnig and Oppovich has failed, dockets of bankruptcy having been yesterday declared against that firm; the usual assignees will be duly appointed by the court to liquidate, on such terms as the estate permits. Present liabilities are currently stated as below eight millions of florins. Actual property will not meet half that sum.

“Further negotiations regarding the Hunyadi contract on your part are consequently unnecessary, seeing that the most favorable conditions you could obtain would in no wise avert or even lessen the blow that has fallen on the house.

“I am directed to enclose you by bill the sum of two hundred and eighteen florins twenty-seven kreutzers, which at the current exchange will pay your salary to the end of the present quarter, and also to state that, having duly acknowledged the receipt of this sum to me by letter, you are to consider yourself free of all engagement to the house. I am also instructed to say that your zeal and probity will be duly attested when any reference is addressed to the managers of this estate.

“I am, with accustomed esteem and respect,

“Your devoted servant,

“Jacob Ulrich.

“P. S. Herr Ignaz is, happily for him, in a condition that renders him unconscious of his calamity. The family has retired for the present to the small cottage near the gate of the Abazzia Villa, called ‘Die Hutte,’ but desires complete privacy, and declines all condolences. – J. U.

“2nd P. S. The enclosed letters have arrived here during your absence.”

So intensely imbued was my mind with suspicion and distrust, that it was not till after long and careful examination I satisfied myself that this letter was genuine, and that its contents might be taken as true. The packet it enclosed would, however, have resolved all doubt; they were three letters from my dear mother. Frequent reference was made to other letters which had never reached me, and in which it was clear the mode in which she had learned my address was explained. She also spoke of Sara as of one she knew by correspondence, and gave me to understand how she was following every little humble incident of my daily life with loving interest and affection. She enjoined me by all means to devote myself heartily and wholly to those who had befriended me so generously, and to merit the esteem of that good girl, who, caring nothing for herself, gave her heart and soul to the service of her father.

“I have told you so much,” said she, “of myself in former letters” (these I never saw) “that I shall not weary you with more. You know why I gave up the school, and through what reasonings I consented to call myself Lady Norcott, though in such poverty as mine the assumption of a title only provoked ridicule. Mr. McBride, however, persuaded me that a voluntary surrender of my position might be made terrible use of against me, should – what I cannot believe – the attempt ever be made to question the legality of my marriage with your father.

“It has been so constantly repeated, however, that Sir Roger means to marry this lady, – some say they are already married, – that I have had careful abstracts made of the registry, and every detail duly certified which can establish your legitimacy, – not that I can bring myself to believe your father would ever raise that question. Strangely enough, my allowance, left unpaid for several years, was lately resumed, and Foster and Wall received orders to acknowledge my drafts on them, for what, I concluded, were meant to cover all the arrears due. As I had already tided over these years of trial and pressure, I refused all save the sum due for the current year, and begged to learn Sir Roger’s address that I might write to him. To this they replied ‘that they had no information to give me on the subject; that their instructions, as regarded payments to me, came to them from the house of Rodiger, in Frankfort, and in the manner and terms already communicated to me,’ – all showing me that the whole was a matter of business, into which no sentiment was to enter, or be deemed capable of entering.”

It was about this period my mother came to learn my address, and she avowed that all other thoughts and cares were speedily lost in the whirlpool of joy these tidings swept around her. Her eagerness to see me grew intense, but was tempered by the fear lest her selfish anxiety might prejudice me in that esteem I had already won from my employers, of whom, strangely enough, she spoke freely and familiarly, as though she had known them.

The whole tone of these letters – and I read them over and over – calmed and reassured me. Full of personal details, they were never selfish in its unpleasant sense. They often spoke of poverty, but rather as a thing to be baffled by good-humored contrivance or rendered endurable by habit than as matter for complaint and bewailment. Little dashes of light-heartedness would now and then break the dark sombreness of the picture, and show how her spirit was yet alive to life and its enjoyments. Above all, there was no croaking, no foreboding. She had lived through some years of trial and sorrow, and if the future had others as gloomy in store, it was time enough when they came to meet their exigencies.

What a blessing was it to me to get these at such a time! I no longer felt myself alone and isolated in the world. There was, I now knew, a bank of affection at my disposal at which I could draw at will; and what an object for my imitation was that fine courage of hers, that took defeats as mere passing shadows, and was satisfied to fight on to the end, ever hopeful and ever brave.

How I would have liked to return to Madame Cleremont, and read her some passages of these letters, and said, “And this is the woman you seek to dethrone, and whose place you would fill! This is she whose rival you aspire to be. What think you of the contest now? Which of you should prove the winner? Is it with a nature like this you would like to measure yourself?”

How I would have liked to have dared her to such a combat, and boldly declared that I would make my father himself the umpire as to the worthier. As to her hate or her vengeance, she had as much as promised me both, but I defied them; and I believed I even consulted my safety by open defiance. As I thus stimulated myself with passionate counsels, and burned with eagerness for the moment I might avow them, I flung open my window for fresh air, for my excitement had risen to actual fever.

It was very dark without Night had set in about two hours, but no stars had yet shone out, and a thick impenetrable blackness pervaded everywhere. Some peasants were shovelling the snow in the court beneath, making a track from the gate to the house-door, and here and there a dimly burning lantern attached to a pole would show where the work was being carried out. As it was about the time of the evening when travellers were wont to arrive, the labor was pressed briskly forward, and I could hear an overseer’s voice urging the men to increased zeal and activity.

“There has been a snow-mountain fallen at Miklos, they say,” cried one, “and none can pass the road for many a day.”

“If they cannot come from Pesth, they can come from Hermanstadt, from Temesvar, from Klausenberg. Guests can come from any quarter,” cried the overseer.

I listened with amusement to the discussion that followed; the various sentiments they uttered as to whether this system of open hospitality raised the character of a country, or was not a heavy mulct out of the rights which the local poor possessed on the properties of their rich neighbors.

“Every flask of Tokayer drunk at the upper table,” cried one, “is an eimer of Mediasch lost to the poor man.”

“That is the true way to look at it,” cried another. “We want neither Counts nor Tokayer.”

“That was a Saxon dog barked there!” called out the overseer. “No Hungarian ever reviled what his land is most famed for.”

“Here come travellers now,” shouted one from the gate. “I hear horses at full speed on the Klausenberg road.”

“Lanterns to the gate, and stand free of the road,” cried the overseer; and now the scene became one of striking excitement, as the lights flitted rapidly from place to place; the great arch of the gate being accurately marked in outline, and the deep cleft in the snow lined on either side by lanterns suspended between posts.