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 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.”