That Boy Of Norcott's. Lever Charles James

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      My mother lived in a little cottage at a place called the Green Lanes, about three miles from Dublin. The name was happily given, for on every side there were narrow roads overshadowed by leafy trees, which met above and gave only glimpses of sky and cloud through their feathery foliage. The close hedgerows of white or pink thorn limited the view on either side, and imparted a something of gloom to a spot whose silence was rarely broken, for it was not a rich man’s neighborhood. They who frequented it were persons of small fortune, retired subalterns in the army, or clerks in public offices, and such like petty respectabilities who preferred to herd together, and make no contrasts of their humble means with larger, greater incomes.

      Amongst the sensations I shall never forget – and which, while I write, are as fresh as the moment I first felt them – were my feelings when the car stopped opposite a low wicket, and Mr. McBride, the attorney, helped me down and said, “This is your home, Digby; your mother lives here.” The next moment a pale but very handsome young woman came rushing down the little path and clasped me in her arms. She had dropped on her knees to bring her face to mine, and she kissed me madly and wildly, so that my cap fell off. “See how my frill is all rumpled,” said I, unused as I was to such disconcerting warmth, and caring far more for my smart appearance than for demonstrations of affection. “Oh, darling, never mind it,” sobbed she. “You shall have another and a nicer. I will make it myself, for my own boy, – for you are mine, Digby. You are mine, dearest, ain’t you?”

      “I am papa’s boy,” said I, doggedly.

      “But you will love mamma too, Digby, won’t you? – poor mamma, that has no one to love her, or care for her if you do not; and who will so love you in return, and do everything for you, – everything to make you happy, – happy and good, Digby.”

      “Then let us go back to Earls Court. It’s far prettier than this, and there are great lions over the gateway, and wide steps up to the door. I don’t like this. It looks so dark and dreary, – it makes me cry.” And to prove it, I burst out into a full torrent of weeping, and my mother hung over me and sobbed too; and long after the car had driven away, we sat there on the grass weeping bitterly together, though there was no concert in our sorrow, nor any soul to our grief.

      That whole afternoon was passed in attempts to comfort and caress me by my mother, and in petulant demands on my part for this or that luxury I had left behind me. I wanted my nice bed with the pink curtains, and my little tool-case. I wanted my little punt, my pony, my fishing-rod. I wanted the obsequious servants, who ran at my bidding, and whose respectful manner was a homage I loved to exact. Not one of these was forthcoming, and how could I believe her who soothingly told me that her love would replace them, and that her heart’s affection would soon be dearer to roe than all my toys and all the glittering presents that littered my room? “But I want my pony,” I cried; “I want my little dog Fan, and I want to sit beside papa, and see him drive four horses, and he lets me whip them too, and you won’t.” And so I cried hysterically again, and in these fretful paroxysms I passed my evening.

      The first week of my life there was to me – it still is to me – like a dream, – a sad, monotonous dream. Repulsed in every form, my mother still persisted in trying to amuse or interest me, and I either sat in moody silence, refusing all attention, or went off into passionate grief, sobbing as if my heart would break. “Let him cry his fill,” said old Biddy the maid, – “let him cry his fill, and it will do him good.” And I could have killed her on the spot as she said it.

      If Biddy Cassidy really opined that a hearty fit of crying would have been a good alterative for me, she ought not to have expressed the opinion in my presence, for there was that much of my father in me that quickly suggested resistance, and I at once resolved that, no matter what it might cost me, or by what other means I might find a vent for my grief, I ‘d cry no more. All my poor mother’s caresses, all her tenderness, and all her watchful care never acted on my character with half the force or one-tenth of the rapidity that did this old hag’s attempt to thwart and oppose me. Her system was, by a continual comparison between my present life and my past, to show how much better off I was now than in my former high estate, and by a travesty of all I had been used to, to pretend that anything like complaint from me would be sheer ingratitude. “Here’s the pony, darlin’, waitin’ for you to ride him,” she would say, as she would lay an old walking-stick beside my door; and though the blood would rush to my head at the insult, and something very nigh choking rise to my throat, I would master my passion and make no reply. This demeanor was set down to sulkiness, and Biddy warmly entreated my mother to suppress the temper it indicated, and, as she mildly suggested, “cut it out of me when I was young” – a counsel, I must own, she did not follow.

      Too straitened in her means to keep a governess for me, and unwilling to send me to a school, my mother became my teacher herself; and, not having had any but the very commonest education, she was obliged to acquire in advance what she desired to impart. Many a night would she pore over the Latin Grammar, that she might be even one stage before me in the morning. Over and over did she get up the bit of geography that was to test my knowledge the next day; and in this way, while leading me on, she acquired, almost without being aware of it, a considerable amount of information. Her faculties were above the common, and her zeal could not be surpassed; so that, while I was stumbling and blundering over “Swaine’s Sentences,” she had read all Sallust’s “Catiline,” and most of the “Odes” of Horace; and long before I had mastered my German declensions, she was reading “Grimm’s Stories” and Auerbach’s “Village Sketches.” Year after year went over quietly, uneventfully. I had long ceased to remember my former life of splendor, or, if it recurred to me, it came with no more of reality than the events of a dream. One day, indeed, – I shall never forget it, – the past revealed itself before me with the vivid distinctness of a picture, and, I shame to say, rendered me unhappy and discontented for several days after. I was returning one afternoon from a favorite haunt, where I used to spend hours, – the old churchyard of Killester, a long-unused cemetery, with a ruined church beside it, – when four spanking chestnuts came to the foot of the little rise on which the ruin stood, and the servants, jumping down, undid the bearing-reins, to breathe the cattle up the ascent. It was my father was on the box; and as he skilfully brushed the flies from his horses with his whip, gently soothing the hot-mettled creatures with his voice, I bethought me of the proud time when I sat beside him, and when he talked to me of the different tempers of each horse in the team, instilling into me that interest and that love for them, as thinking sentient creatures, which gives the horse a distinct character to all who have learned thus to think of him from childhood. He never looked at me as he passed. How should he recognize the little boy in the gray linen blouse he was wont to see in black velvet with silver buttons? Perhaps I was not sorry he did not know me. Perhaps I felt it easier to fight my own shame alone than if it had been confessed and witnessed. At all events, the sight sent me home sad and depressed, no longer able to take pleasure in my usual pursuits, and turning from my toys and books with actual aversion.

      Remembering how all mention of my father used to affect my mother long ago, seeing how painfully his mere name acted upon her, I forbore to speak of this incident, and buried it in my heart, to think and ruminate over when alone.

      Time went on and on till I wanted but a few months of twelve, and my lessons were all but dropped, as my mother’s mornings were passed either in letter-writing or in interviews with her lawyer. It was on the conclusion of one of these councils that Mr. McBride led me into the garden, and, seating me beside him on a bench, said, “I have something to say to you, Digby; and I don’t know that I ‘d venture to say it, if I had not seen that you are a thoughtful boy, and an affectionate son of the best mother that ever lived. You are old enough, besides, to have a right to know something about yourself and your future prospects, and it is for that I have come out to-day.” And with this brief preface he told me the whole story of my father’s and mother’s marriage and separation; and how it came to pass that I had been taken from one to live with the other; and how the time was now drawing СКАЧАТЬ