That Boy Of Norcott's

As for my father, I saw little of him, but in that little he was always kind and good-natured with me. He would quiz me about my lessons, as though I were the tutor, and Ecoles the pupil; and ask me how he got on with his Aristophanes or his Homer? He talked to me freely about the people who came to the house, and treated me almost as an equal. All this time he behaved to Madame with a reserve that was perfectly chilling, so that it was the rarest thing in the world for the three of us to be together.

“I don’t think you like papa,” said I once to her, in an effusion of confidence. “I am sure you don’t like him!”

“And why do you think so?” asked she, with the faintest imaginable flush on her pale cheek.

While I was puzzling myself what to answer, she said, —

“Come now, Cherubino, what you really meant to say was, I don’t think papa likes you!”

Though I never could have made so rude a speech, its truth and force struck me so palpably that I could not answer.

“Well,” cried she, with a little laugh, “he is very fond of Monsieur Cleremont, and that ought always to be enough for Madame Cleremont. Do you know, Cherubino, it’s the rarest thing in life for a husband and wife to be liked by the same people? There is in conjugal life some beautiful little ingredient of discord that sets the two partners to the compact at opposite poles, and gives them separate followings. I must n’t distract you with the theory, I only want you to see why liking my husband is sufficient reason for not caring for me.”

Now, as I liked her exceedingly, and felt something very near to hatred for Monsieur Cleremont, I accepted all she said as incontestable truth. Still I grieved over the fact that papa was not of my own mind, and did not see her and all her fascinations as I did.

There is something indescribably touching in the gentle sadness of certain buoyant bright natures. Like the low notes in a treble voice, there is that that seems to vibrate in our hearts at a most susceptible moment, and with the force of an unforeseen contrast; and it was thus that, in her graver times, she won over me an ascendancy, and inspired an interest which, had I been other than a mere boy, had certainly been love.

Perhaps I should not have been even conscious, as I was of this sentiment, if it were not for the indignation I felt at Cleremont’s treatment of her. Over and over again my temper was pushed to its last limit by his brutality and coarseness. His tone was a perpetual sneer, and his wife seldom spoke before him without his directing towards her a sarcasm or an impertinence. This was especially remarkable if she uttered any sentiment at all elevated, when his banter would be ushered in with a burst of derisive laughter.

Nothing could be more perfect than the way she bore these trials. There was no assumed martyrdom, no covert appeal for sympathy, no air of suffering asking for protection. No! whether it came as ridicule or rebuke, she accepted it gently and good-humoredly; trying, when she could, to turn it off with a laugh, or when too grave for that, bearing it with quiet forbearance.

I often wondered why my father did not check these persecutions, for they were such, and very cruel ones too; but he scarcely seemed to notice them, or if he did, it would be by a smile, far more like enjoyment of Cleremont’s coarse wit than reprehending or reproving it.

“I wonder how that woman stands it?” I once overheard Hotham say to Eccles; and the other replied, —

“I don’t think she does stand it. I mistake her much if she is as forgiving as she looks.”

Why do I recall these things? Why do I dwell on incidents and passages which had no actual bearing on my own destiny? Only because they serve to show the terrible school in which I was brought up; the mingled dissipation, splendor, indolence, and passion in which my boyhood was passed. Surrounded by men of reckless habits, and women but a mere shade better, life presented itself to me as one series of costly pleasures, dashed only with such disappointments as loss at play inflicted, or some project of intrigue baffled or averted.

“If that boy of Norcott’s isn’t a scamp, he must be a most unteachable young rascal,” said an old colonel once to Eccles on the croquet ground.

“He has had great opportunities,” said Eccles, as he sent off his ball, “and, so far as I see, neglected none of them.”

“You were his tutor, I think?” said the other, with a laugh.

“Yes, till Madame Cleremont took my place.”

“I ‘ll not say it was the worst thing could have happened him. I wish it had been a woman had spoiled me. Eh, Eccles, possibly you may have some such misgivings yourself?”

“I was never corrupted,” said the other, with a sententious gravity whose hypocrisy was palpable.

I meditated many and many a time over these few words, and they suggested to me the first attempt I ever made to know something about myself and my own nature.

Those stories of Balzac’s, those wonderful pictures of passionate life, acquired an immense hold upon me, from the very character of my own existence. That terrific game of temper against temper, mind against mind, and heart against heart, of which I read in these novels, I was daily witnessing in what went on around me, and I amused myself by giving the names of the characters in these fictions to the various persons of our society.

“It is a very naughty little world we live in at this house, Digby,” said Madame to me one day; “but you’d be surprised to find what a very vulgar thing is the life of people in general, and that if you want the sensational, or even the pictorial in existence, you ‘ll have to pay for it in some compromise of principle.”

“I know mamma wouldn’t like to live here,” said I, half sullenly.

“Oh, mamma!” cried she, with a laugh, and then suddenly checking herself: “No, Digby, you are quite right. Mamma would be shocked at our doings; not that they are so very wicked in themselves as that, to one of her quiet ways, they would seem so.”

“Mamma is very good. I never knew any one like her,” stammered I out.

“That’s quite true, my dear boy. She is all that you say, but one may be too good, just as he may be too generous or too confiding; and it is well to remember that there are a number of excellent things one would like to be if they could afford them; but the truth is, Digby, the most costly of all things are virtues.”

“Oh, do not say that!” cried I, eagerly.

“Yes, dear, I must say it. Monsieur Cleremont and I have always been very poor, and we never permitted ourselves these luxuries, any more than we kept a great house and a fine equipage, and so we economize in our morals, as in our means, doing what rich folk might call little shabbinesses; but, on the whole, managing to live, and not unhappily either.”

“And papa?”

“Papa has a fine estate, wants for nothing, and can give himself every good quality he has a fancy for.”

“By this theory, then, it is only rich people are good?”

“Not exactly. I would rather state it thus, – the rich are as good as they like to be; the poor are as good as they ‘re able.”

“What do you say, then, to Mr. Eccles: he ‘s not rich, And I ‘m sure he’s good?”

“Poor Mr. Eccles!” said she, with a merry laughter, in which a something scornful mingled, and she hurried away.

CHAPTER X. PLANNING PLEASURE

It was my father’s pleasure to celebrate my sixteenth birthday with great splendor. The whole house was to be thrown open; and not only the house, but the conservatory and the grounds were to be illuminated. The festivities were to comprise a grand dinner and a reception afterwards, which was to become a ball, as if by an impromptu.

As the society of the Villa habitually was made up of a certain number of intimates, relieved, from time to time, by such strangers as were presented, and as my father never dined out, or went into the fashionable world of the place, it was somewhat of a bold step at once to invite a number of persons with whom we had no more than bowing acquaintance, and to ask to his table ministers, envoys, court officials, and grand chamberlains for the first time. It was said, I know not how truthfully, that Cleremont did his utmost to dissuade him from the project at first, by disparaging the people for whom he was putting himself to such cost, and, finding this line of no avail, by openly saying that what between the refusals of some, the excuses of others, and the actual absence of many whose presence he was led to expect, my father was storing up for himself an amount of disappointment and outrage that would drive him half desperate. It was not, of course, very easy to convey this to my father. It could only be done by a dropping word or a half-expressed doubt. And when the time came to make out the lists and issue the invitations, no real step had been taken to turn him from his plan.

The same rumor which ascribed to Cleremont the repute of attempting to dissuade my father from his project, attributed to Madame Cleremont a most eager and warm advocacy of the intended fête. From the marked coldness and reserve, however, which subsisted between my father and her, it was too difficult to imagine in what way her influence could be exercised.

And for my own part, though I heard the list of the company canvassed every day at luncheon, and discussed at dinner, I don’t remember an occasion where Madame ever uttered a word of remark, or even a suggestion in the matter. Hotham, who had come back on a short leave, was full of the scheme. With all a sailor’s love of movement and bustle, he mixed himself up with every detail of it. He wrote to Paris and London for all the delicacies of the “comestible” shops. He established “estafettes” on every side to bring in fresh flowers and fruit; with his own hands he rigged out tents and marquees for the regimental bands, which were to be stationed in different parts of the grounds; and all the devices of Bengal lights and fireworks he took into his especial charge.

Indeed, Nixon told me that his functions did not stop here, but that he had charged himself with the care of Madame Cleremont’s toilette, for whom he had ordered the most splendid ball-dress Paris could produce. “Naturally, Master Digby, it is Sir Roger pays,” added he; “and perhaps one of these days he’ll be surprised to find that diamond loops and diamond bouquets should figure in a milliner’s bill. But as she is to receive the company, of course it’s all right.”

“And why does Mr. Cleremont seem to dislike it all so much?” asked I.

“Chiefly, I believe, because she likes it.” And then, as though he had said more than he intended, he added: “Oh, it’s easy to see he likes to keep this house as much his own as he can. He does n’t want Sir Roger to have other people about him. He’s almost the master here now; but if your father begins to mix with the world, and have strangers here, Cleremont’s reign would soon be over.”

Though there was much in this speech to suggest thought and speculation, nothing in it struck me so forcibly as the impertinence of calling Mr. Cleremont Cleremont, and it was all I could do to suppress the rebuke that was on my lips.

“If your father comes through for a thousand pounds, sir,” continued he, “I ‘ll say he’s lucky. If Sir Roger would leave it to one person to give the orders, – I don’t mean myself, – though by right it is my business; instead of that, there’s the Captain sending for this, and Cleremont for the other, and you ‘ll see there will be enough for three entertainments when it’s all over. Could you just say a word to him, sir?”

“Not for the world, Nixon. Papa is very kind to me and good-natured, but I ‘ll not risk any liberty with him; and what’s more, I ‘d be right sorry to call Mr. Cleremont Cleremont before him, as you have done twice within the last five minutes.”

“Lord bless you, Master Digby! I ‘ve known him these fifteen years. I knew him when he came out, just a boy like, to Lord Colthorpe’s embassy. He and I is like pals.”

“You have known me also as a boy, Nixon,” said I, haughtily; “and yet, I promise you, I ‘ll not permit you to speak of me as Norcott, when I am a man.”

“No fear of that, sir, you may depend on ‘t,” said he, with humility; but there was a malicious twinkle in his eye, and a firm compression of the lip as he withdrew, that did not leave my mind the whole day after. Indeed, I recognized that his face had assumed the selfsame look of insolent familiarity it wore when he spoke of Cleremont.

The evening of that day was passed filling up the cards of invitation, – a process which amused me greatly, affording, as it did, a sort of current critique on the persons whose names came up for notice, and certainly, if I were to judge of their eligibility only by what I heard of their characters, I might well feel amazed why they were singled out for attentions. They were marquises and counts, however, chevaliers of various orders, grand cordons and “hautes charges,” so that their trespasses or their shortcomings had all been enacted in the world of good society, and with each other as accomplices or victims. There were a number of contingencies, too, attached to almost every name. There must be high play for the Russian envoy, flirting for the French minister’s wife, iced drinks for the Americans, and scandal and Ostend oysters for everybody. There was scarcely a good word for any one, and yet the most eager anxiety was expressed that they would all come. Immense precautions had been taken to fix a day when there was nothing going on at court or in the court circle. It was difficult to believe that pleasure could be planned with such heart-burning and bitterness. There was scarcely a detail that did not come associated with something that reflected on the morals or the manners of the dear friends we were entreating to honor us; and for the life of me I did not know why such pains were taken to secure the presence of people for whom none had a good wish nor a single kindly thought.

My father took very little part in the discussion; he sat there with a sort of proud indifference, as though the matter had little interest for him, and if a doubt were expressed as to the likelihood of this or that person’s acceptance, he would superciliously break in with, “He ‘ll come, sir: I ‘ll answer for that. I have never yet played to empty benches.”

This vain and haughty speech dwelt in my mind for many a day, and showed me how my father deemed that it was not his splendid style of living, his exquisite dinners, and his choice wines that drew guests around him, but his own especial qualities as host and entertainer.

“But that it involves the bore of an audience, I’d ask the king; I could give him some Château d’Yquem very unlike his own, and such as, I’ll venture to say, he never tasted,” said he, affectedly.

“So you are going to bring out the purple seal?” cried Cleremont.

“I might for royalty, sir; but not for such people as I read of in that list there.”

“Why, here are two Dukes with their Duchesses, Marquises and Counts by the score, half-a-dozen ministers plenipotentiary, and a perfect cloud of chamberlains and court swells.”

“They ‘d cut a great figure, I ‘ve no doubt, Hotham, on the quarter-deck of the ‘Thunder Bomb,’ where you eke out the defects of a bad band with a salute from your big guns, and give your guests the national anthem when they want champagne. Oh dear, there’s no snob like a sailor!”

“Well, if they ‘re not good enough for you, why the devil do you ask them?” cried Hotham, sturdily.

“Sir, if I were to put such a question to myself, I might shut up my house to-morrow!” And with this very uncourteous speech he arose and left the room.

We continued, however, to fill in the cards of invitation and address the envelopes, but with little inclination to converse, and none whatever to refer to what had passed.

“There,” cried Cleremont, as he checked off the list. “That makes very close on seven hundred. I take it I may order supper for six hundred.” Then turning half fiercely to me, he added: “Do you know, youngster, that all this tomfoolery is got up for you? It is by way of celebrating your birthday we’re going to turn the house out of the windows!”

“I suppose my father has that right, sir.”

“Of course he has, just as he would have the right to make a ruin of the place to-morrow if he liked it; but I don’t fancy his friends would be the better pleased with him for his amiable eccentricity: your father pushes our regard for him very far sometimes.”

“I ‘ll tell him to be more cautious, sir, in future,” said I, moving towards the door.

“Do so,” said he. “Good-night.”

I had scarcely taken my bedroom candle when I felt a hand on my shoulder: I turned and saw Madame Cleremont standing very pale and in great agitation at my side. “Oh, Digby,” said she, “don’t make that man your enemy whatever you do; he is more than a match for you, poor child!” She was about to say more when we heard voices in the corridor, and she hurried away and left me.

CHAPTER XI. A BIRTHDAY DINNER

The eventful day arrived at last, and now, as I write, I can bring up before me the whole of that morning, so full of exciting sensations and of pleasurable surprises. I wandered about from room to room, never sated with the splendors around me. Till then I had not seen the gorgeous furniture uncovered, nor had I the faintest idea of the beauty and richness of the silk hangings, or the glittering elegance of those lustres of pure Venetian glass. Perhaps nothing, however, astonished me so much as the array of gold and silver plate in the dining-room. Our every-day dinners had been laid out with what had seemed to me a most costly elegance; but what were they to this display of splendid centrepieces and massive cups and salvers large as shields! Of flowers, the richest and rarest, wagon-loads poured in; and at last I saw the horses taken out, and carts full of carnations and geraniums left unloaded in the stable-yard. Ice, too, came in the same profusion: those squarely cut blocks, bright as crystal, and hollowed out to serve as wine-coolers, and take their place amidst the costlier splendors of gold and silver.

It is rare to hear the servant class reprove profusion; but here I overheard many a comment on the reckless profligacy of outlay which had provided for this occasion enough for a dozen such. It was easy to see, they said, that Mr. Clere-mont did not pay; and this sneer sunk deep into my mind, increasing the dislike I already felt for him.

Nor was it the house alone was thus splendidly prepared for reception; but kiosks and tents were scattered through the grounds, in each of which, as if by magic, supper could be served on the instant. Upwards of thirty additional servants were engaged, all of whom were dressed in our state livery, white, with silver epaulettes, and the Norcott crest embroidered on the arm. These had been duly drilled by Mr. Cleremont, and were not, he said, to be distinguished by the most critical eye from the rest of the household.

Though there was movement everywhere, and everywhere activity, there was little or no confusion. Cleremont was an adept in organization, and already his skill and cleverness had spread discipline through the mass. He was a despot, however, would not permit the slightest interference with his functions, nor accept a suggestion from any one. “Captain Hotham gives no orders here,” I heard him say; and when standing under my window, and I am almost sure seeing me, he said, “Master Digby has nothing to do with, the arrangements any more than yourself.”

I had determined that day to let nothing irritate or vex me; that I would give myself up to unmixed enjoyment, and make this birthday a memorable spot in life, to look back on with undiluted delight. I could have been more-certain to carry out this resolve if I could only have seen and spoken with Madame Cleremont; but she did not leave her room the whole day. A distinguished hairdresser had arrived with a mysterious box early in the morning, and after passing two hours engaged with her, had returned for more toilet requirements. In fact, from the coming and going of maids and dressmakers, it was evident that the preparations of beauty were fully equal to those that were being made by cooks and confectioners.

My father, too, was invisible; his breakfast was served in his own room; and when Cleremont wished to communicate with him, he had to do so in writing: and these little notes passed unceasingly between them till late in the afternoon.

“What’s up now?” I heard Hotham say, as Cleremont tore up a note in pieces and flung the fragments from him with impatience.

“Just like him. I knew exactly how it would be,” cried the other. “He sent a card of invitation to the Duc de Bredar without first making a visit; and here comes the Duc’s chasseur to say that his Excellency has not the honor of knowing the gentleman who has been so gracious as to ask him to dinner.”

“Norcott will have him out for the impertinence,” said Hotham.

“And what will that do? Will the shooting him or the being shot make this dinner go off as we meant it, eh? Is that for me, Nixon? Give it here.” He took a note as he spoke, and tore it open. ‘La Marquise de Carnac is engaged,’ not a word more. The world is certainly progressing in politeness. Three cards came back this day with the words ‘Sent by mistake’ written on them. Norcott does not know it yet, nor shall he till to-morrow.”

“Is it true that the old Countess de Joievillars begged to know who was to receive the ladies invited?”

“Yes, it is true; and I told her a piece of her own early history in return, to assure her that no accident of choice should be any bar to the hope of seeing her.”

“What was the story?”

“I’d tell it if that boy of Norcott’s was not listening there at that window.”

“Yes, sir,” cried I; “I have heard every word, and mean to repeat it to my father when I see him.” “Tell him at the same time, then, that his grand dinner of twenty-eight has now come down to seventeen, and I ‘m not fully sure of three of these.”

I went down into the dining-room, and saw that places had been laid for twenty-eight, and as yet no alteration had been made in the table, so that it at once occurred to me this speech of Cleremont’s was a mere impertinence, – one of those insolent sallies he was so fond of. Nixon, too, had placed the name of each guest on his napkin, and he, at least, had not heard of any apologies.

Given in my honor, as this dinner was, I felt a most intense interest in its success. I was standing, as it were, on the threshold of life, and regarded the mode in which I should be received as an augury of good or evil. My father’s supremacy at home, the despotism he wielded, and the respect and deference he exacted, led me to infer that he exercised the same influence on the world at large; and that, as I had often heard, the only complaint against him in society was his exclusiveness. I canvassed these thoughts with myself for hours, as I sat alone in my room waiting till it was time to dress.

At last eight o’clock struck, and I went down into the drawing-room. Hotham was there, in a window recess, conversing in whispers with an Italian count, – one of our intimates, but of whom I knew nothing. They took no notice of me, so that I took up a paper and began to read. Cleremont came in soon after with a bundle of notes in his hand. “Has your father come down?” asked he, hastily; and then, without waiting for my reply, he turned and left the room. Madame next appeared. I have no words for my admiration of her, as, splendidly dressed and glittering with diamonds, she swept proudly in. That her beauty could have been so heightened by mere toilette seemed incredible, and as she read my wonderment in my face she smiled, and said: —

“Yes, Digby, I am looking my very best to fête your birthday.”

I would have liked to have told her how lovely she appeared to me, but I could only blush and gaze wonder-ingly on her.

“Button this glove, dear,” said she, handing to me her wrist all weighted and jingling with costly bracelets; and while, with trembling fingers, I was trying to obey her, my father entered and came towards us. He made her a low but very distant bow, tapped me familiarly on the shoulder, and then moved across to an arm-chair and sat down.

Cleremont now came in, and, drawing a chair beside my father’s, leaned over and said something in a whisper. Not seeming to attend to what he was saying, my father snatched, rather than took, the bundle of letters he held in his hand, ran his eyes eagerly over some of them, and then, crushing the mass in his grasp, he threw it into the fire.