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 step