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,--everything seemed of matchless beauty to me.
Could I ever weary of admiring them? Would they seem to me every morning
as I awoke as tasteful and as elegant as now they appeared to me? Oh,
if dear mamma could but see them! If she but knew with what honor I
was received, would not the thought go far to assuage the grief our
separation cost her? And, last of all, came the thought, if she herself
were here to live with me, to read with me, to be my companion as she
used to be,--could life offer anything to compare with such happiness?
And why should not this be? If papa really should love me, why might I
not lead him to see to whom I owed all that made me worthy of his love?
“Breakfast is served, sir, in the small breakfast-room,” said a servant,
respectfully.
“You must show me where that is,” said I, rising to follow him.
And now we walked along a spacious corridor, and descended a splendid
stair of white marble, with gilded banisters, and across an octagon
hall, with a pyramid of flowering plants in the centre, and into a large
gallery with armor on the walls, that I wished greatly to linger over
and examine, and then into a billiard-room, and at last into the small
breakfast-parlor, where a little table was laid out, and another servant
stood in readiness to serve me.
“Mr. Eccles, sir, will be down in a moment, if you 'll be pleased to
wait for him,” said the man.
“And who is Mr. Eccles?” asked I.
“The gentleman as is to be your tutor, sir, I believe,” replied he,
timidly; “and he said perhaps you 'd make the tea, sir.”
“All right,” said I, opening the caddy, and proceeding to make myself at
home at once. “What is here?”
“Devilled kidneys, sir; and this is fried mackerel. Mr. Eccles takes
oysters; but he won't have them opened till he's down. Here he is, sir.”
The door was now flung open, and a good-looking young man, with a glass
stuck in one eye, entered, and with a cheery but somewhat affected
voice, called out,--
“Glad to see you, Digby, my boy; hope I have not starved you out waiting
for me?”
“I'm very hungry, sir, but not quite starved out,” said I, half amazed
at the style of man selected to be my guide, and whose age at most could
not be above three or four and twenty.
“You haven't seen your father yet, of course, nor won't these two hours.
Yes, Gilbert, let us have the oysters. I always begin with oysters and
a glass of sauterne; and, let me tell you, your father's sauterne is
excellent Not that I counsel _you_, however, to start with wine at
breakfast. I have n't told you that I 'm to be your tutor,” said he,
filling his glass; “and here's to our future fellowship.”
I smiled and sipped my tea to acknowledge the toast, and he went on,--
“You mustn't be afraid that I 'll lean too heavily on you, Digby,--at
least, at first. My system is, never make education a punishment.
There's nothing that a gentleman--mind, I say a gentleman--ought to
know that he cannot acquire as easily and as pleasantly as he does
field-sports. If a man has to live by his wits, he must drudge; there's
no help for it. And--But here come the oysters. Ain't they magnificent?
Let me give you one piece of instruction while the occasion serves; let
no one ever persuade you that Colchester oysters equal the Ostend. They
have neither the plumpness nor the juiciness, and still less have they
that fresh odor of the sea that gives such zest to appetite. One of
these days I shall ask you what Horace says of oysters, and where. You
never heard of Horace, eh?”
“Yes, sir; I was reading the 'Odes' when I came away.”
“And with whom, pray?”
“With mamma, sir.”
“And do you mean to say mamma knew Latin?”
“Yes, sir; she learned it to teach me. She worked far harder than I did,
and I could never come up with her.”
“Ah, yes, I see; but all that sort of learning--that irregular study--is
a thing to be grubbed up. If I were to be frank with you, Digby, I 'd
say I 'd rather have you in total ignorance than with that smattering of
knowledge a mamma's teaching is sure to imply. What had you read before
Horace?”
“'Caesar's Commentaries,' sir, an 'Æneid' of Virgil, two plays of
Terence--”
“Any Greek?--anything of Euripedes or Aristophanes, eh?” asked he,
mockingly.
“No, sir; we were to begin the New Testament after the holidays; for I
had just gone over the grammar twice.”
“With mamma, of course?”
“Yes, sir.”
He helped himself to a cutlet, and as he poured the Harvey's sauce over
it, it was plain to see that he was not thinking of what was before him,
but employed in another and different direction. After a considerable
pause he turned his eyes full upon me, and with a tone of far more
serious import than he had yet used, said, “We 're not very long
acquainted, Digby; but I have a trick of reading people through their
faces, and I feel I can trust you.” He waited for some remark from
me, but I made none, and he went on: “With an ordinary boy of your
age,--indeed, I might go farther, and say with any other boy--I 'd not
venture on the confidence I am now about to make; but a certain instinct
tells me I run no danger in trusting _you_.”
“Is it a secret, sir?”
“Well, in one sense it _is_ a secret; but why do you ask?”
“Because mamma told me to avoid secrets; to have none of my own, and
know as little as I could of other people's.”
“An excellent rule in general, but there are cases where it will not
apply: this is one of them, for here the secret touches your own family.
You are aware that papa and mamma do not live together? Don't flush up,
Digby; I 'm not going to say one word that could hurt you. It is for
your benefit--I might say for your absolute safety--that I speak now.
Your father has one of the noblest natures a man ever possessed; he is
a prince in generosity, and the very soul of honor, and, except pride,
I don't believe he has a fault. This same pride, however, leads him to
fancy he can never do wrong; indeed, he does not admit that he ever made
a mistake in his life, and, consequently, he does not readily forgive
those to whom he imputes any disasters that befall him. Your mother's
family are included in this condemned list,--I can't exactly say why;
and for the same reason, or no reason, your mother herself. You must,
therefore, take especial care that you never speak of one of these
people.”
“And mamma?”
“_Her_ name least of all. There may come a time--indeed, it is sure to
come--when this difficulty can be got over; but any imprudence now--the
smallest mistake--would destroy this chance. Of course it's very hard on
you, my poor fellow, to be debarred from the very theme you 'd like best
to dwell on; but when you know the danger--not merely danger, but the
positive certainty of mischief--a chance word might bring about, I read
you very ill, or you 'll profit by my warning.”
I bent my head to mean assent, but I could not speak.
“Papa will question you whether you have been to school, and what books
you are reading, and your answer will be, 'Never at school; had all my
lessons at home.' Not a word more, mind that, Digby. Say it now after
me, that I may see if you can be exact to a syllable.”
I repeated the words correctly, and he patted me affectionately on the
shoulder, and said,--
“You and I are sure to get on well together. When I meet with a boy,
who, besides being intelligent, is a born gentleman, I never hesitate
about treating him as my equal, save in that knowledge of life I 'm
quite ready to share with him. I don't want to be a Pope with my pupil,
and say, 'You are not to do this, or think that,' and give no reason
why. You 'll always find me ready to discuss with you, and talk over
anything that puzzles you. I was not treated in that fashion myself, and
I know well what the repressive system has cost me. You follow me, don't
you, in what I say?”
“Yes, sir; I think I understand it all.”
Whether I looked as if my words had more meaning than they expressed,
or that some sort of misgiving was working within him that he had been
hasty in his confidence, I know not; but he arose suddenly, and said, “I
must go and get a cigarette.” And with that he left me.